Soulless
by SpadesJade
Summary: A wounded Vincent goes to visit an old friend who can patch him up. He gets caught up in an attempted hit on one of the biggest kingpins in the city, and Vincent always does what Vincent does best. Except Victoria is a bit of a complication...
1. Victoria

Disclaimer: Don't own anything to do with the movie Collateral. I only own Victoria.

Summary: I just can't believe that someone like Vincent could die that easily. Like he said, "I do this for a living." So here's my take on events after the credits rolled. I just saw the movie yesterday, and this work was composed at about 2 in the morning, so if it's a little disjointed, that's why.

SOULESS

He had no soul.

She looked into his eyes. Clear blue. Eyes were windows to the soul. His shone, but were empty. Like the sun reflecting on blue glass.

"Vincent. Sit down before you fall down."

Slowly, he obeyed. He was not the kind who ever obeyed, not when it wasn't fully within his own willpower, or an action he had already intended. Still, it sounded nice. Like she had some small kind of control.

"What happened?"

"Got shot in the chest," he said, his voice low, calm. She could hear his breathing was slightly ragged.

"Grazed a lung," she said.

"Lucky if it's just that. Wouldn't have made it back here if it had done more."

"How _did_ you get back here?" She didn't waste her time just chatting. She was already preparing to clean him up. Hot water steaming in a tall ceramic bowl, clean washcloth ready. He did not lie down. She wasn't sure if she should ask him to, but as she approached, her fingers nimbly undoing the buttons of his shirt, revealing the wound underneath to be much uglier than she'd thought. It was low, which was lucky. Maybe it only had bruised one of his lungs, then her greater talents wouldn't be necessary.

"What do you think?" he asked, still very calm, looking not at her but at some vague spot on her shirt. Any other man would have been looking at her cleavage. Sometimes she wondered if Vincent's equipment was fully functional - if he had a package at all.

"I think you should lie down." She reached over, pulled one of the thicker, heavier pillows off the couch, shoved it against the side of the bench, and he gingerly laid down, making sure he was upright enough to still breathe. She peeled the rest of the shirt away, quickly taking off his silver-gray suitcoat and sliding it out from under him before he landed. The shirt would stay on until he grew tired of smelling his own dried blood. Vincent was not comfortable being nude in her presence. Even half-nude.

Quietly, she began her work of cleaning him. He was quiet as ever, feeling nothing, even when she had to pry down to pull the bullet out. He clenched his muscles, his entire body quivering as if an electric current had been shot through him, but he did not scream, did not even whimper in pain. And thankfully, he did not pass out. When she was done, she cleaned the wound and handed him a bottle of Jack Daniels. He took small sips, just enough to blanket himself. His endorphins had probably long since kicked in, creating in him a sort of "runner's high." She could see from the slightly glazed look in his eyes.

The stitches were a bit tricky, but the hole was not large, and the blood had clotted quickly. She almost shook her head - the man didn't deserve to have the kind of healing system that he did. But then again, a man without a soul had to make up for it somewhere. A body like a machine seemed a good start.

"Sleep, not that you will, will help," she said, putting all her used materials into the hot water and bagging all the bloodied gauze for tossing. She pulled away from his reclined form for a moment as she worked and he did not bother her, but as she stood up, one of his hands grazed her forearm.

"Thank you, Victoria," he said, his eyes meeting hers.

"Don't thank me, pay me," she said, knowing it was just part of their routine.

* * *

She had met Vincent many years ago - she'd lost track of how many. She'd lost her license, not because of any gross malpractice, but because she'd pissed off the wrong people. She'd only been a doctor for a few years and already all of that went to waste. She had medical school loans to pay. Then word came down the pike that the man she had attempted to put in jail - a child molester, from what she'd seen on his victims, and a very wealthy and powerful one at that - was dead, shot to death, execution style, in his own home. The killer was like a ghost, in and out, not a single trace. There were two other deaths, and then a cabbie shot himself in the head. All the evidence had said that the cabbie was the shooter, but the man had been driving a cab for fifteen years, and had been known as being utterly reliable and unshakably stable.

Of course, that was just in the papers. Who knew what truth there was in journalism these days? She'd been burned by journalists more than once, knowing that freedom of the press was half myth, half what sold papers. Her scorched career was proof of that.

Having little other choice, she'd taken a job in a less-than-respectable establishment, treating wounded drug dealers who couldn't go to the hospital. She lost her taste for that quickly, set up her own little private practice and got something of a reputation - she would up treating more criminals, but these criminals were willing to pay for her silence. Eventually, she was hired by a very high-up mafia tycoon, to be his own personal physician. He even arranged for the return of her license. Then, Vincent had shown up.

She was just leaving her boss' house that night when Vincent arrived, sliding through the shadows like a gray ghost. She hadn't seen his face, only caught the slightest blur of his movements before she'd heard the quiet popping of a silencer and instinctively knew that her current employer was dead. She wanted to go back, wanted to see, but that was when all hell chose to break loose.

The bodyguards put a valiant effort into eliminating Vincent, managed to get a bullet into his leg. In a haze of gunfire and the smell of blood, she found herself taken hostage, a human shield for whatever other bullets got too close to him. Eventually, she was locked in a room with him, and had asked him if she could look at his leg. Not because she cared so much about him, not because she thought it might buy her life, but because she couldn't stand to see a creature in pain, any creature, even one as cold and diabolical as this one.

By the time she'd patched him up, he had figured out a way to escape. She half-expected him to kill her, but there wasn't any real purpose for him to do that, as he so plainly told her. He'd thanked her, asked her name.

"Victoria Potter," she said.

"Thank you, Victoria," he said, before slipping out a window and disappearing completely.

A few months later, he'd shown up at her office in the middle of the night - she only kept night hours, for the sake of her clientele - with a rather ugly wound through his arm. The bullet had passed through completely. He'd lost a lot of blood. She'd had to nurse him through the night, but she did it, and when he was better, he paid her well.

Since then, she saw him from time to time, needing patching. His network of scars was starting to read like a map across his body. Being only a human woman, she could not help but admire his body, as strong and muscular as it was, arms, legs, torso, everything. And the color his hair, that silvery-gray that sometimes turned into a white-gold in the right light, was possibly what truly got her. She was a bit of a sucker for silver-haired foxes, although he was hardly much older than forty.

But he had no soul. He was empty inside.

A long time ago, she'd been a good person, trying to fight the good fight. She'd made some bad choices, hadn't made sure she was protected, and bang, she was working for the bad guys. It wasn't right, she knew it wasn't right, but she felt stuck. Half of the money she received went to charities, her way to attone for her sins. She lived in poverty by choice, refusing to relish the fruits of her illegal labors. She was not a criminal - she merely worked for a criminal.

Vincent was only one of a dozen who passed through her office in a week. Why was his presence so affecting?

* * *

"Victoria?"

He was resting, had been doing so for about an hour since she'd finished with him. She would have offered him a more comfortable spot, but knew he wouldn't take it.

"You know, some people have the respect to call me Dr. Potter," she said, snapping off her latex gloves and throwing them in the trash.

"What were you doing?" he asked, ignoring her comment.

"Disinfecting some of my equipment," she said. "The stuff you messed up."

"It takes you that long to pour alcohol over some metal tools?"

"Your blood at clotted in some places. It was a bit of a mess. Plus, I like to make sure things are sterile."

To her surprise, he chuckled. "Sterile instruments for the wicked? You're trying to save the lives of people that God would rather let die? Not a God-fearing woman, are you?"

She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it, turning away. The silence stretched.

"Neither am I," he said. "I don't really believe in God, but I'm painfully aware that most other people on the planet do."

"I am," she whispered.

"Am what?"

"A God-fearing woman."

He raised his head a little. "Funny way to show it."

"Is this when you start rambling about how we're specks of dust?" she asked, attempting to restore her own levity. "How none of us matter anyway?"

"I already went through that speech a few times tonight," he said.

"Ah, so _that's_ why you got shot."

To her surprise, he chuckled. "Touché." he said. "No, actually, I was shot by a cab driver."

She turned around, leaned against the tall lab table. He didn't talk much about his work - it was a given, what he did for a living. She'd treated enough assassins to know they all had the same general look about them. He was like an archetype for the species, however, and he fascinated her in spite of herself.

"A cabbie? How did he manage that?"

"Long story."

There it was - the classic cut-off. She turned away. "It was a long night, I guess."

A distinct pause filled the room. Traffic could be heard buzzing nearby. She heard him let out a small sigh, and mutter, "I _really_ hate L.A."

When she'd finished cleaning up after him, she went over to check the stitches. As she gently lifted up the gauze and examined the wound, his hand reached up and covered hers.

She stopped. It was not like Vincent to touch people. As a doctor, she had a natural ability to read people, and that was the first thing she'd picked up about Vincent right away. Every movement was stiff, controlled, calculated. He did nothing without knowing its exact result. Like a chess player, almost, only more aware of the consequences.

"I _let_ that fucker shoot me," he said, his eyes on the ceiling, his fingers still lightly resting on the back of her hand. His voice wasn't angry, but there was a distinct note of annoyance in it.

"You let him?" she asked, her voice equally mild. "How did you manage that?"

He considered, and for a moment she was sure he wasn't going to say another word to her. Then, moistening his lips, he began to speak.

"The cabbie who drove me tonight had a business card wedged in the visor of his car. A woman he'd met earlier, a lawyer. I asked him if he was ever going to call her. He wasn't sure. Then, after we...parted ways...he caught up with me again when I went to go see her."

"You went to see her?" she whispered.

"We had business," Vincent stated simply. "But the cabbie got in the way. He could have been killed a dozen times, I could have shot him when he shot me, but...that didn't stop him. This woman he was terrified to talk to, he was willing to risk his life for her."

Victoria waited, silent.

Vincent twitched, something like a shrug. "I don't know. Maybe it was the fact that neither one of us had any bullets left, or that I was shot and didn't have the strength to do it bare-handed, but I let them go. There will be hell to pay later, but I let them go."

Victoria frowned. "That doesn't sound like you."

"No, it doesn't," he agreed. Another twitch-shrug. "I'm sure I'll have a change of heart later. When I'm feeling better." He turned his eyes on her, gave her one of his smiles that almost made her believe he was human. She gave him a half-smile back.

"Until then, you need bed-rest," she said. "Or your business days are over. You want me to call a cab for you? Take you to a decent hotel?"

"No," he said, not too quickly. "If I have to stay in this town, I'd rather stay here." Very matter-of-factly, nothing to give away _why_ he might feel that way, if he felt at all. "If you don't mind."

She doubted it would make a difference if she did. "Whatever you say, boss."

He chuckled. "Got anything more comfortable than this table?"

"Nothing more than the waiting room couch."

"I'm sure you keep it immaculate."

"I don't let criminals bleed on my furniture."

"Good." He lifted himself up, slowly, painfully. She helped him, her arms gently around his shoulder and chest. He managed to get one of his arms around her neck for support, and made it to the couch.

"Just don't make any noise," she cautioned him.

"Don't worry about me. I'm just a silent little speck of dust." 

Somehow, she doubted that.

A/N: So what do you think? Let me know that you like it and I might continue. I'm not sure where it will go, but I'm sure I'll think of something. Already a few ideas are brewing...just hit the purple button down below!


	2. Shakespeare

_**Thank you, reviewers! I appreciate honesty. I hope I don't disappoint. Please keep reviewing, as it makes the work a bit easier. **_

Disclaimer: Don't own anything from Collateral. And I don't own Shakespeare, either.

_**Shakespeare**_

He healed fast. Within three days he was able to get up, move around, and seemed quite ready to leave. But he stayed. She didn't know why he stayed. Maybe it had something to do with the conversation.

During the days, she went home and slept, leaving him alone. The first day she had stayed to watch him, but seeing that he was quite capable of taking care of himself, hadn't done so over the next two days. When she came in at dusk, she checked the waiting room, realized that it was an obvious problem, having him lying there when other clientele came in for mending, so she decided to just make the waiting room off limits. She moved a few chairs into the small hallway, posted a makeshift sign telling people to sit in the hallway. During the quiet hours, of which there were plenty, she went in the waiting room and sat with him.

They had started talking.

He asked her how she had become a doctor. She gave him the standard story, up until the point where she'd discovered severe signs of advanced sexual abuse in a ten year old boy who was on the brink of death. She wished she had been more careful, checked out who the father was before going on the war path. Not, she told herself, and eventually him when he pressed it, that it would have stopped her. Wrong was wrong. And here she was.

"You and I are opposites, you know," he commented. He had wedged himself upright with some tattered sofa cushions, his white shirt, tainted pink now from the permeation of his own blood, partly closed, in spite of the huge, dark red oval over the right side of his body.

She arched an eyebrow. She wasn't used to talking much with people. Having become a night person, there weren't many people around to talk to. There were a few prostitutes who came in now and again, talked to her about her life, wondering how she managed to be respectable in the same world they inhabited, where women were just a commodity to be bought and traded. There was one drug dealer who seemed to have a good soul, but had been sucked, like her, onto the wrong path, and didn't know how to get off it. He was good for a few philosophical discussions, but he was few and far between. She'd never chatted with an assassin. Usually when she got assassins they kept their mouths tightly shut.

She hadn't pegged Vincent for much of a chatter in the beginning. She should have been somewhat used to it by now.

"How do you mean?"

"You give life. I take it away."

"I don't give life, I just fix whatever's wrong with the human body."

"And if you didn't, these people would probably die." He smirked at her, the light from outside catching on the gunmetal-gray of his hair.

"Why is your hair that color?" she asked idly, sipping at a cup of black Starbucks coffee that she had reheated at least three times in her microwave, giving it the strength now of nuclear waste.

He shrugged. "Premature gray, what can I say?"

She shook her head. "You have dark roots. You did that on purpose."

"It matches my suit."

It was her turn to smirk. Of all the things to clam up about, it was his damn hair. Some people were so funny.

"So you know how I became a doctor. How did you become what you are?"

"A contract killer?" he said, with the sort of indifference that reminded her of the coldness of the person she was talking to.

"Yeah."

"Well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." Pure deadpan as he did it. A few years ago, she might have thought he was serious. She'd gotten used to his twisted sense of humor.

"Seriously."

"Seriously." He echoed, then looked away, as if the answer were written on the wall behind him. "Well, it mostly had to do with a big spiritual revelation."

"Nihilistic ways of thinking can be called spiritual?" she asked.

"White is called a color, when it is really the absence of all color."

"I see your point."

"After that, it didn't matter what I did. The first one was hard, I admit. The first one is always hard. I actually threw up, if you can picture that."

"No, I can't."

"After that, it was easy. The more I did it, the easier it was. Now." He gave a half-shrug. "It's just a job."

"Somehow I expected more out of you than that," she said with a sigh, standing up.

He seemed confused. "What do you mean?"

"Typical hard-hearted assassin," she said, dumping her coffee, even thought there was half an inch left. "I guess I shouldn't have expected more," she added, this one to herself. "What the hell did I expect, anyway?"

There was a rustling at the door. She stepped out of the waiting room, without having to tell him to be quiet. She turned off the single dim light on her way, closed the door behind her, went into her lab, anticipating whomever it was who had come to see her. She had just reached her lab table when she realized that there was more than a single pair of footsteps entering her office.

"Dr. Potter?"

Victoria turned, a scalpel carefully shifted into the fold of her sleeve, just in case. But it was business, a couple of men in suits, armed but not threatening.

"We need your help, Dr. Potter," the first one said.

"Most of my clients introduce themselves first," Victoria said, politely.

"I'm Mr. Cranke, these are my associates, Mr. Bottom and Mr. Puck."

"Read _Midsummer Night's Dream_ one too many times, have we?" Victoria joked casually, reaching for her medical bag.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Cranke asked. "I didn't follow you..."

"No, but I'll follow you. You work for Marcus Shakespeare, right? How badly shot is he this time?"

Marcus Shakespeare---the man was nuts for naming himself that. It wasn't his real name, he'd adopted the last name legally. If legally meant by bribes and pressure on all the right people. He had the money to spare, too.

It seemed he needed to spend more of it on better security. There had been so many assassination attempts on the man in the past six months alone, it was almost enough money for her to finish paying back her loans. She would have finished a lot faster if she wasn't the kind of person who liked saving money in savings accounts. And she never went on shopping sprees with her credit card, always a plus.

They politely escorted her to their waiting car, where they asked her kindly if she would please place the velvet bag over her head, which she did. It was routine. No one saw where Shakespeare hid himself. Not even her, who was starting to become his regular physician. Bullet wounds had become something of a specialty for her, and they'd picked up on that fast.

They treated her well. The inside of the velvet bag had even been scented with something that smelled like linen. Of all the things, she thought wryly. They offered her some mineral water when they arrived, which she took, to clear her throat, and after she was done, they offered her a meal in the dining room before she was returned to her office.

It was routine. She got calls like this all the time. They paid her extra for her to wear the bag. Shakespeare - she hated thinking of him like that - Marcus liked her, she could tell by the way his eyes lit up when she arrived at his bedside. He was a rather large man, dark hair going gray, muscular enough to hold his own in a fight, but aged enough to be slowed down. Still, she was quite sure that whoever had dared put that bullet in his lower leg had suffered far worse than he.

She didn't like to think about it. She didn't think about it, she just did her job. They were humans, they needed fixing. These people had all the supplies she needed, and she left Mr. Marcus in a state of half-bliss, the flattened bullet in the hands of people who knew what to do with those things. She was not a forensic expert, although she was starting to wonder if she should have taken it up, like she'd had the hunch to do during her senior year in college. But no, she'd wanted to work with people.

The irony, it was agonizing. If that was irony, she was never quite sure of the meaning of that word.

"This is wonderful chicken salad," she commented idly to the man who stood close by -Mr. Puck, if she remembered correctly.

"The Bard ordered it especially for you, after your last visit," he said. "And the tea?"

"Passionfruit flavored," she said with a smile, finishing the last few drops. "Could you slip me some of the leaves before I go?"

He did, and within a half hour she was back at her office. When she came in, she was met with a rather annoyed Vincent.

"Where have you been?" he asked, trying to be calm and failing only in the sense that he was looking around everywhere, something she discovered he only did if he was nervous.

"Working," she said. "I had a call."

"A call that made them put a bag over your head?" Vincent asked, his voice heavy with incredulity.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I'm fine." She put her stuff away, realized he was still mildly pacing her office.

"Who were you treating?" he asked.

"Do I ask you who hires you to kill people?" she said, after shoving the last of her gauze back in the box, standing up and pressing a fist against the small of her back. That chicken salad was going to make her fat. She could already feel the mayonnaise making its way to her thighs.

"You don't have to be rude," he said, although there was a hint of contrition in his voice. "I understand, professional confidence. It's fine. I just don't like being kept in the dark."

"Vincent, you've been here three days. I think you're well enough to go home," she said, opening and closing some drawers, suddenly very uncomfortable with his continued presence in her office.

"You want me to leave?" he asked. He stopped by the door, looked back at her, face a picture of innocence. She had studied that face before, how it could be so perfect, and so absolutely nuts underneath, she didn't know. She thought there was some kind of rule in nature against beautiful things going insane.

Suddenly, she felt guilty. "It's not that," she sighed. She slammed the last drawer shut. "You still wearing that shirt?"

He looked down. His white shirt still hung open, ruined and bloodsoaked. "I don't have anything else."

She picked up her keys. "Look, I'll go get you a shirt."

"At three in the morning?"

"Well, I'm not going to send you off looking like that. And your ear-" she stepped closer, and then suddenly the door behind her opened. She spun around, startled, vaguely heard - more like felt, as Vincent's movements were practically silent - Vincent retreat into the next room, invisible. There were four men in the room, none of them like the three characters she'd encountered earlier, all of them holding their guns in their hands in plain sight.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" she asked, a bit loudly.

"You can," the first one said, turning on the rest of the fluorescent overhead lights. She blinked hard - keeping the lights low helped save her electricity bill, which was insane in this town - looked around at their faces, didn't recognize anything, stared back at them blankly.

"And-?"

"Marcus Shakespeare," the first one said, raising his gun. "You treated him a short time ago, yes?"

"Yes," she said, her stomach doing a slow summersault. No sense lying, but it felt wrong.

"You know where he is, yes?"

"They blindfolded me, I don't know."

"But you've gone many times before," said the second man. The third and fourth seemed to be mainly occupied with blocking the door and looking out the windows, making sure they were alone.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" she asked.

"I'll ask the questions, Dr. Potter," said the first man.

"Anybody tell you, all you guys look alike?," came Vincent's voice from a doorway. "What do you do, go to a cronies school or something?" He had gotten his suit-coat back on, had buttoned up his white shirt and buttoned the suitcoat to mostly cover all the dried blood.

They turned. Surprised to see him. "Who are you?" asked the second man.

"I'll as the questions now," Vincent said. "Are you bothering my doctor?"

"She is Marcus Shakespeare's doctor," the first man said. "We need to find him. You," he said, to Victoria, "will take us to him."

"I already told you-"

"She was blindfolded, she didn't see anything. She's no help to you guys," Vincent said, and Victoria finally noticed that of his hands was behind his back. "I suggest you apologize and leave."

"I suggest we shoot you and leave, if you're no use to us," said the second man, and they all cocked their guns.

"They teach you that in cronies school?" Vincent asked, his voice pleasant, conversational, nearly teasing. "Shoot everybody?"

"This isn't any of your business, old man-"

"Don't let the gray hair fool you," Vincent said, his eyes sharpening, his smile becoming dangerous. "Like I said, Dr. Potter isn't any help to you. So apologize for wasting her time, and leave."

The second man raised his gun at Vincent, obviously annoyed that this supposed nobody was bossing him around. He fired, but missed.

As he fired, Vincent fired back. He didn't miss.

Victoria had heard gunshots before, but not inside a room in which she was enclosed. The sound was horrible, like an explosion, a miniaturized volcano erupting and spraying hot lava blood everywhere. The man fell, surprised and, a few seconds later, dead. The first man looked at Vincent, impressed, but knowing damn well such a thing couldn't be tolerated.

The fourth man, the one who had been scouting the other rooms, had somehow gotten behind Victoria, and she didn't know he was there until she felt his hand on her shoulder and the barrel of his gun pressed between her shoulderblades. She let out the smallest of startled noises, then heard that explosion again, this time with the bullet whizzing right over her shoulder and causing a sickening sound behind her.

Vincent was looking at her, _at her_, as if he was angry, as if it were somehow her fault she'd nearly gotten shot. And then his eyebrows arched just a touch, and he looked as if he expected her to say something, but if she had intended to say anything, she didn't get the chance, as the other two men opened fire and Vincent had to duck back into the waiting room.

The glass between her office and the room was shattered, and Victoria stepped back so quickly she lost her balance and landed with a thud on her bottom behind a tall, marble-topped table that she'd been given as a gift from Mr. Marcus after her first visit, when he'd told her she was the best doctor ever and would let no one but her ever take bullets from his body.

It was a stupid memory, but one that managed to keep her from going into hysterics as her office was shredded by gunfire. When it was done, she heard the metallic clinking of empty bullet casings on the floor, and then Vincent was standing over her, his hand reaching down, offering her help to her feet.

She was quite calm when she stood up. "You okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she said. "I don't even think I got scratched. But my ears are ringing."

"That will pass. You sure you're okay? If you're stressed, you should concentrate on breathing."

"I'm breathing fine," she said. She stepped away from him, toward the dead bodies. She'd seen dead bodies before, even freshly dead bodies, but not in the background of her destroyed office.

"Fuck," she said.

"What?"

"I'll never get this cleaned up."

He almost smiled. "You certainly won't have time. Come with me."

"Why?" she snapped, starting to pick up some of the larger pieces of glass and throw them into one of the sinks.

"Because the police are going to be here and you don't want to have to explain four dead bodies."

"I'll just tell them it was a gang, they'll buy it," she said, searching for a broom. Even she was amazed at her own calm.

Vincent fixed her with a look. "You're serious?"

She looked back at him. "What, you're afraid I'm going to tell on you? Come on, Vincent, you've seen that's not how I run my business."

"No, I saw that you didn't know how to get to Marcus Shakespeare, so you told them you didn't know. You were lucky. What would you have said if you had seen it?"

"That's a stupid question. I would have lied."

Vincent smiled. "You know something, Victoria? I never lie. I believe in complete and total honesty. And so, I'm going to ask you to come with me one more time, then I'm going to throw you over my shoulder and lock you in the trunk of that car outside if you say no."

She hesitated, swallowed. "Why?" she whispered.

"Just come," he said, taking her arm, and leading her out the door to the car the thugs had left parked just outside her office.

A/N: Like it? Hate it? Suggestions? Manners are always good, reviews are even better.


	3. Honesty

_**Disclaimer: Don't own anything except Victoria. **_

A/N: Speaking of Honesty, I have to tell you all something...I wasn't going to post this chapter until mid-tomorrow, but I got so many warm reviews and you guys are all just so great that I had to post early. Keep commenting and I'll post Chapter 4 ASAP, which is already ready and raring to go.

_**Honesty**_

They stopped at hotel near the airport. Vincent explained in his casual way that he was supposed to have made a 6:00 a.m. flight three days ago, and that he would probably have to call around a bit to get a decent rate.

The hotel was a decent place, clean, well kept, but not fancy. The single luxury it boasted was the bathroom, which was nearly a third the size of the room. The tub itself was huge, deep oval, enough for two people. Victoria found herself wishing she could take a bath, or better yet, wishing she could move into that hotel room, with its simplicity and luxury in all the right places to suit her tastes.

As it was, she didn't even have a change of clothes. She looked down at her simple button-down shirt and jeans, and the white coat she kept around her to protect her from whatever might be splattered on it. She noticed a thin spray-pattern of dark red. She slipped the coat off, went into the bathroom, began running cold water and unwrapped the hotel soap in an attempt to clean it.

When she came back, Vincent was sitting at the table in the room, the television off, and he was flipping idly through the room service menu.

"You hungry?"

"Do they have room service this late?"

"It's an airport hotel, I'm sure they do."

She had moved up into the space between the two queen size beds. The clock blazed the numbers "3:35 A.M." at her. Sunrise would start to crack the horizon in a few hours. She wondered if the cops had even arrived at her office yet. She wondered if she would ever be able to go back there.

She wondered what in the hell Vincent thought he was doing.

She looked at him over her shoulder, turned slightly. He noticed, looked back at her quizzically.

"You okay?"

"Fine," she said, tightly. "Vincent, will you answer a question?"

"Depends on the question. I won't lie to you."

"Why are you really doing this? I mean, what happened tonight didn't have anything to do with you. You could have just kept quiet, stayed in that room, let those men carry out their business, then disappeared when it was over. No one would have been the wiser and you could have gotten your plane out of L.A. What are you going to do with me?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Well, that's not really 'a' question, it's more like five or six questions. Why did I get involved, what's my interest in you, all of that." He waved his hand idly, almost as if he didn't really know himself. "I guess I just don't like it when people I have business with are mistreated."

She frowned, slowly finished her turn, sank down onto the bed. It really wasn't a large room, they were barely ten, fifteen feet apart. "So what are we going to do now?"

"I figured I'd order some room service, somehow get my shirt cleaned enough to go buy a new one in the morning, get a few hours sleep."

"Do you sleep?"

"Everyone sleeps, Victoria."

"You haven't slept much at all since you came through my door," she said, feeling a little braver. "You act like it, but I can tell."

His eyes, which had been politely focused on her, an American way to show that a person was paying attention to everything someone said, drifted to the right, just barely, losing focus. He was thinking, and not very quickly. "They say the higher the life form, the less sleep is required."

She almost laughed, managed to stop it at the smile. "Higher life forms?"

"Explains why cats sleep all the damn time, doesn't it?"

"You don't like cats," she sighed, realizing he had utterly changed the subject. No, he didn't lie. When he didn't want to talk about something, he just didn't. "You a dog person?"

"Not really any kind of animal person. Except maybe fish. But fish aren't animals, are they?"

"No, they're fish," she said, reaching up to pull her hair out of the ponytail it had been in for far too long. She shook it out, feeling how lank and greasy the locks were. God, she needed a shower.

"You want something to wear?" he asked.

She looked back at him, startled. "I'm sorry?"

"When I go for a new shirt, you want me to pick you up something? What are you, a ten?"

"Junior eleven," she said, feeling slightly modest. She may not have been a beauty queen, but she'd been blessed with a good sized figure. "I'm going to go take a shower, I just can't stand this anymore."

So that was what she did.

* * *

She took a very long, very hot shower. She relished the burn, the pain on her arms and legs and back, as the water was possibly too hot. When she finished, she noticed red blotches on her skin, dismissed them. The hotel was polite enough to provide a hairdryer, which she used, using her fingers as a comb. It almost worked, but she was glad that her hair at least felt clean, even if it didn't look too much better.

She put her clothes back on, bra, panties, and shirt, but left the jeans off. She wrapped one of the thick white towels around her waist and went back out into the room, where she found Vincent still sitting in the chair, gazing out the window, lost in his own thoughts.

After a few moments of nothing, after Victoria was quite sure he hadn't even realized she was back in the room, she approached him, picked up the room service menu, and gazed right down into his face.

"Anybody home?"

He abruptly snapped back to her, his eyes glowing for a moment, sunlight on blue glass, and for a single moment, she was afraid of him. Her heartbeat accelerated rapidly, then slowed when he blinked, and there was recognition in his features.

"I'm sorry?"

"Did you order anything?" she asked, holding up the menu, attempting to ignore what had just happened.

"No, I was waiting to see what you wanted." Smoothly, also as if nothing had just happened. Although she'd triggered something. As he looked away, it occurred to her that his expression was actually rather sad.

She went to the telephone, ordered herself a cheeseburger and a cherry Coke, and a club sandwich for him, as he had silent approached her and pointed at the item on the menu as she spoke. He didn't say a word.

"Can I turn the television on?" she asked quietly as they waited for their food. He appeared as if he'd just realized there was a television in the room.

"If you want." He laid himself down on one of the beds, his movements slightly labored. She put the remote down and approached him, going into doctor mode.

"Let me take a look," she said, pushing aside the jacket and shirt before he could object. He let her do as she did best, even looked contrite when she scowled at the blood that was spotting the gauze.

"You popped a stitch," she said, almost accusingly. She looked around in the drawers, found a needle and thread kit. "How's your pain tolerance?"

"Pretty good," he said. "You going to sew me back up?"

"I need to. That could get infected." She removed the gauze, went to get her coat, found a few scraps of fresh gauze where she usually kept it stashed close by, in her pocket, so she could always reach it quickly. She managed to salvage the tape on the old gauze, cleaned his wound with a clean washcloth and some hot water, wished she could get her hands on some hydrogen peroxide, but had him done back up again properly by the time the room service attendant politely rapped on their door. Covering him back up, she went to the door, sighed the bill, and let the man bring the food in. She had a few dollars in her jean pocket, she went to go get it so she could give him a tip.

It was all done in relative silence, except for the small murmurs of polite talk from the attendant. When he was gone, she sat down in the chair Vincent had recently vacated and pulled one of the silver-domed dishes toward her. It was her cheeseburger, and until she smelled it, she'd had no idea how hungry she was.

Vincent tried to pull himself off the bed, but she quickly came to her senses and pushed the rolling table toward him, so he could reach his dinner without having to move. "Drink the water," she told him. "It's good for you."

"Eight glasses a day," he echoed back. "Why do they always say apples keep a doctor away?"

"It means stay healthy and you won't need us," she said, returning to her chair and her meal.

"I'm healthy, and I need you."

"Yeah, well, you're a hit man."

"I prefer assassin," he said, picking up a corner of his club sandwich.

"Really? I guess it sounds more dangerous. How long have you been an assassin?"

He didn't flinch at the question. She guessed all the rules were out the window. No sense in hiding a bunch of secrets, as all the seemed to be able to do right now was spill their guts to each other. After all, she'd told him all her troubles, it was his turn now.

"Six years in the private sector," he said, automatically, as if it were a recording.

"And before that?" she prodded.

"Classified information," he tossed back with a small smile.

"Ah, military. Black ops, CIA, just like in the movies."

"It's a lot more dangerous than the movies make it look. And a lot less glamorous." He seemed to gaze off into the distance, as if remembering something. "Unless you count the night that brought me to your door. That was something out of a movie."

"What happened?"

He told her.

* * *

He told her about Max, the cab driver, who seemed to be someone he wasn't. A doer, not a talker. He'd liked him, found him to be open to change, a quick study. Max was good at what he did, even if what he did wasn't what he wanted to do. He knew how fast it would take to get anywhere from anywhere, knew the right routes, knew the light systems, knew everything.

He told her how Ramone had fallen out of the window when he shot him, landing his fat ass on top of Max's cab, and Max throwing a fit. He spoke of it exactly as how he had reacted to it - millions of people die every day in horrible ways, nobody cares. One fat guy falls out of the sky, Max goes to pieces.

Vincent didn't get it. He didn't understand why other people didn't see the world the way he did. As she listened to him, as she had a few times before, Victoria became uneasy. This was how a sociopath sounded.

Contrary to popular opinion, sociopaths were not psychopaths. A psychopath had no morality, no sense of anyone except himself. A sociopath was a person who saw the world in a particular way that was outside of the norm, outside of society. They believed their view to the point where they couldn't understand why others didn't see it, as well.

She didn't know whether to be fascinated or terrified by him. But either way, he had not hurt her. To the contrary, he had saved her. Those men most likely would have killed her, or at least tortured her trying to get the information they wanted. And she hadn't even thanked him.

What she didn't know was, why he had done it. But as she listened, there seemed to be no reasons as to why he had kept Max the entire night. Sure, in the beginning it had seemed like simple protection, making sure he wouldn't tell anyone. But after Max tried to get attention in the middle of downtown L.A. and had gotten robbed, it would have made more sense for Vincent to just shoot him as well, get rid of him. Obviously the man was a liability now, just getting more people involved.

But no, Vincent had calmly told him that if he attracted attention, people were going to get killed "who didn't need to be."

Victoria watched Vincent's face as he said it. They didn't need to be killed. She had never really considered the inside of a sociopathic killer before. She didn't think that a killer cared who they killed. Then again, someone like Vincent was smart - don't kill more than what's necessary, it also attracts attention.

"Vincent," she said softly, when he'd paused to tell her about the jazz club, which she did want to hear, but she had a question first.

"What?"

"I doesn't bother you to kill people, does it?"

He seemed unsure as to how to answer. "Mostly, no."

"You didn't care that you killed those kids in the alley. They seemed to deserve it, the way you described them."

"Yeah."

"Well, it seems to me," she wet her lips, wondering how much trouble she was about to get in for her next statement, "that you were just saying those things to get inside Max's head. To manipulate him."

"Yes." Didn't even blink.

"Isn't that kind of like lying?"

"No. Everything I said was true. The only difference was, I didn't care about it. He did."

She scowled at him. "See, I still don't understand. You don't care whether people live or die. You only kept Max alive because you needed him. Why did you save me? You don't need me."

He stared at her for a long second. "You know, it is slightly rude to interrupt someone's story, when you just want to talk about yourself," he said, a bit admonishing. She felt her mouth snap shut.

"Sorry, go ahead." Although she couldn't believe a man who took lives for money was reprimanding her for rudeness.

"You know, there are times when I feel bad about killing someone," Vincent said. "I just don't let it get to me."

"When?"

"That night. Max and I went to a jazz club, and there was this guy there, playing the trumpet. And I mean, he was good. He was playing Miles Davis' Spanish Key as if he'd written the thing. He was wonderful. I had to buy him a drink, I asked a waitress to send him over to our table. And then she told me who he was - he was Daniel, the next guy on my list."

"You mean, you had to kill him?"

"He came over to the table and we talked. He told me some crazy stories, every one of them true. I actually felt bad for him when I found out he'd missed his chance to become a professional player because of his time in jail. If only he hadn't gone, he would have become one of the greats, and we would never have had to meet." Vincent let out a small sigh, barely audible. "But it was cruel, playing with him like that. So I let him know who I was, and you should have seen his face fall. He liked me, you know. I could tell. And even Max, who I think was a liar when he said he didn't like jazz that much, he was starting to enjoy himself. But Max talked me into giving Daniel a chance, which didn't take much, because I really didn't want to kill him."

Victoria thought of a question, wondered if she should ask it. Realizing it was not about herself, she dared to voice it. "What would have happened if you hadn't shot him? I mean, wouldn't your employers have been mad?"

Vincent shrugged. "I would have crossed that bridge when I came to it. Anyway, Daniel didn't get the chance. I asked him a question about Miles Davis and he got it wrong." Vincent blinked, looked away. "You know, Victoria, I'm not a sadistic man. I don't like watching other people's pain. I did him, I do everyone, as fast as I can. I don't drag it out."

She nodded, looked away. What the hell difference did it make what she thought, anyway? It was becoming more and more disconcerting, the way Vincent seemed to be trying to justify himself. As if she were a possible disciple to his sociopathic view of the world.

"Victoria?" came his voice, feeling very distant.

She looked up, blinked, waited expectantly.

"Do you think I could take a shower? Those sponge baths just haven't been cutting it lately."

"Not with the last strip of gauze I've got taped to you, you can't," she said.

"Damn. Well, I'm going to have to clean up a bit more rigorously than just a sponge bath." He started to get up, and she rose from her seat, to assist him. "No," he said, putting out a hand. "No, it's okay, I'm fine. Finish your dinner...order some desert if you want. I'll be fine." And he dragged himself into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

A/N: I don't usually do this, but there are so many of you, I wanted to tell you all how great you are one on one. So here we go---

**acrossthenight**--I'm glad Victoria fits into this mix. I didn't want to see Vincent end up with a Mary Sue, if he ends up with anyone at all. Heh heh. Besides, I have no idea in hell how I'm going to make this story work, as Vincent is totally the "institutionalized type...anybody home?" down to the bone. So we'll just have to see what mess I make of it.

**SweetArwen**--The movie was brilliant, wasn't it? I saw it twice in the same week. I want to see it again at least one more time so I can get the mood of this fanfic right later.

**Warm Mittens--**Thanks for the comments...although I don't know about "brilliant," but hey, I'll take it. Don't worry, you will find out what happens. I know how you feel, when people start a good fanfic and don't finish it. That's not me.

**Sargonne**--You know, I used to worry that my characters were going to become Mary Sues, but then I figured out that they can't be, because for a character to be good, they have to be real. That's why Vincent and Max were both so great, they were real characters, 3-D people you could empathise with on some level. My opinion is that if your character turns out to be a Mary Sue, she ceases to be a good character. Some people like Mary Sues, and in the context of superheroes, sure, she's fine. But not in real-world stories like this. So thanks, I appreciate the compliment.

**firegoddess164**--Max and Annie...well, to be honest, I don't see a place for them in this story, but you never know. Max will come up, as you can see from chapters 2 and 3, in Vincent's head and eventually in Victoria's, and Annie will appear there, too, but I don't know if they'll show up in the flesh.

**FREAK18**--Thank you so much for what you said! I didn't realize that my settings had been defaulted that way. THanks for clearing that up!

**Bryony Cel**--Yeah, it did seem too easy, didn't it? I just couldn't buy that a guy like that could bite it so easy. Like he said, "I do this for a living!"

**Yaaamish**--I shall try not to disappoint you. I appreciate your honesty. I hope you're sticking with me so far.

**Bequile**--aww, shucks, hero? (looks all bashful) Same feelings about "brillaint," but I'll take that too. Thanks for your encouraging review!

KEEP READING!


	4. Protection

**_Disclaimer: Same as always._**

A/N: Hope this chapter doesn't bore anyone. Please keep reviewing, as I've picked up the habit of responding. (grin) It makes the work go a lot faster, knowing I have people waiting to know what comes next. Sometimes even I don't know!

**_Protection_**

It took him a while, and she found herself alone in the hotel room for a bit. She pulled down the heavy bedspread, wondering if she might be able to get a few hours of sleep before they had to check out. The hotel had those velveteen blankets she liked so well - not the knotty cotton that showed way too much use. She pushed the sheet down, let her legs, the towel discarded in Vincent's absence, relishing the soft feel of the blanket against her skin. She picked up the remote and flipped through the dial, watching for some late news headline, and seeing nothing, she turned it off. It was going to be morning soon, and maybe there would be something then. If she and Vincent were there long enough for her to see it.

When she thought about it, she wasn't sure what she expected to see. And if she did see anything, it might only make her panic. It didn't seem that Vincent was willing to let her go anytime soon...not that she'd really asked.

It dawned on her then. She hadn't asked him to let her go. What if she tried?

When he emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, his shirt hanging over the shower rail, some of the bright red blood diminished but the shirt itself utterly ruined, she wondered how he would react if she asked him. He hadn't let Max go, but Max was more of a hostage. He seemed to think he was helping her. Protecting her.

"Did I tell you I got to see Max's mother?" Vincent asked as he made himself comfortable on his bed again. She had made herself comfortable and now was directly across from him. She leaned forward on her elbows, her lower half modestly covered by the blankets.

"You saw your hostage's mother?"

"I prefer to think of him as a friend," Vincent said sincerely. "That's what I told his mother, too. Turned out he'd been lying to her, telling her he was running a limousine company. It was kind of sad, but it really made a lot of sense. Max was the sort of guy who had to have everything be perfect and ready before he'd try anything. He was going to spend the rest of his life waiting for everything to line up for him - I even told him that. Although this was much, much later. I guess he got pissed off that his mother liked me so much, he stole my briefcase and ran off with it."

She jerked up a bit. "Stole your briefcase?"

"All my work-ups. Threw it onto the freeway."

"And you _still _didn't shoot him?"

Vincent shrugged, picking at what was left of his potato chips. "I made him go get me new ones. I have no idea what the hell happened when he did, but when he came back, he had it."

Victoria stared at him. "Wow."

Vincent was staring idly ahead, out the window, over the lights of Los Angeles. "Yeah. Impressed even me, I gotta tell you."

"So what happened then?" Victoria asked, sincerely interested now, perhaps in spite of herself.

"We went after the last two targets. The first guy was easy, in a big club called Fever. Turns out making them think Max was me was a really good idea. My boss sent some of his goons after me to make sure I didn't fuck it up. Tried to kill Max." He turned, looked at her, gave her something of a smile, and said, "I didn't let them. Want to know why?"

"Because you still needed him?"

He shook his head. "Max didn't deserve to be gunned down by goons like that. But he didn't appreciate it. He was very pissed off at me later when we got out of the club. Probably because I killed the cop who was trying to take him away from me."

Victoria pulled back a bit as his words ran through her head_. Tried to take him away from me_. Like Max was his property. It was a little creepy.

"Wouldn't talk to me afterwards. Didn't even say thank you." Vincent frowned a little, as if still hurt by the memory. "Then he tried to kill us both by running us off the road. I got the message, and I took off to take care of the last assignment." He chuckled. "That's when things turned shitty."

She had pulled back, was leaning against the headboard, watching Vincent from over a small pile of covers, like a child being told a scary story by a mischievous baby sitter.

"Turns out it was the woman he'd met earlier that night. You know, it's kind of funny." He stopped picking at his potato chips, took a long drink of water, which was mostly melted ice cubes by now. "I was actually telling him a little while ago that he needed to call her. That he needed to take the risk. If we lived through that night."

"Didn't you already know she was your last target?" Victoria asked.

"I guess I did. I don't know why I said that to him. Maybe I was trying to make him feel better."

"About having to kill him later? That's what you were going to do by then, wasn't it?"

After a heavy pause, "Yes."

Victoria shut her eyes. "Vincent, I'm really tired," she said softly.

"Yeah, you should get a little bit of sleep. I'll wake you when we have to leave."

She slid down onto her back, pulling the covers up close. "Yeah. Thanks."

* * *

_She dreamed about being in that cab with him. She was an invisible person in the back seat, watching everything._

"_No, all you can do is clam up on me," Vincent was saying to Max, who was furious and silent. Vincent was all over the back of the cab, looking out the window in every single possible direction, a living twitch of movement. "How about telling me to fuck off?"_

"_Fuck off," Max growled._

_Then the cab started to flip. He had rammed it into something on the side of the road and they were flipping over and over, and when they landed, Vincent managed to get his hand into the front seat, where he started to hit Max in anger, but not hard enough to really hurt him. There was something funny about the whole thing, but in the twisted realm of dream logic, it made sense. _

_Then the cops came. Vincent ran off into the night._

_She dreamed she was the woman, Annie, in her office, as Vincent stalked her. She dreamed she was sitting at a desk when all the lights went out, and as she ran for the door, she saw his shadow appear. She crawled on her belly among the tables, desks and chairs, trying to hide as Vincent stalked her, finally cornering her. She tried to get away, backed into a wall, closed her eyes and waited for him to kill her._

_Then Max was there, a gun pointed at Vincent's head._

"_Let her go," Max said. He was just a giant black shadow with glasses, looking like every other cab driver she'd ever ridden with in her life. She didn't even know what he sounded like, but in the dream, she just knew it was him. _

"_Why, what are you going to do about it?" Vincent taunted, retaking his aim. Then the world exploded._

Victoria opened her eyes, her heartbeat in her throat. It took her a few minutes to remember where she was, and then a few minutes more for her to figure out that she needed to go to the bathroom.

As she sat up, she saw Vincent was where she had left him, only he had turned the light out, encasing the room in blackness. Their nightlight was the city lights below, bright enough for her to find her path to the bathroom door. She looked back at Vincent as she entered, trying to figure out if he was awake or asleep. She swore she saw him blink. She turned on the bathroom light.

The glow fell over him and he looked up toward her. She responded by stepping into the bathroom and pulling the door shut.

Vincent was still sitting upright on his bed, having found a deck of cards that someone had left beside the Bible in the drawer, along with the sewing kit. He was idly tossing the cards down the length of his body, trying to see how far he could throw.

She walked over to the gap between their beds. She saw down, reached over and flipped on the lamp between them.

"I thought you said everyone sleeps," she said softly.

"I've been thinking about that night," he answered, his voice a low, vibrating hum.

"The night..."

"On the MTA, with Max and Annie. I've been playing it over and over in my head for three days now. I can't figure it out." He paused, pushing the deck of cards away. "You know, that sort of thing, I do it for a living. And a cabbie and a D.A. get the drop on me."

"I wouldn't call it a drop," she said, smirking, attempting to lighten his mood. "It's not like you were cowboys in a showdown at the O.K. Corall."

He shrugged. "I'll figure out what I did wrong. I won't do it again."

"He shot you in the ear, too, right?" she said, standing up. "How does it feel?"

"That sticky stuff you put on it itches like a bitch, but I'm pretty good at ignoring it by now." He turned his head without having to be asked as she approached, giving her a clear path to his ear. The bullet had taken a chunk out of the cartilage on the top. He would be scared for life. At the moment, she had packed the wound and bandaged it with a new kind of bandage, one that was made of tiny fibers that covered the wound like a glue. It looked almost normal to the outside eye. It had been hell getting all that dried blood off the side of his face. But it had given her time to admire his goatee and beard, if it could be called that, as it was as thin as a five o'clock shadow-if thickness went up with numbers, it was actually a ten o'clock shadow.

His hand reached up, his fingers gentle on her wrist as she started to pull away. He pulled her down so she sat in front of him on the bed, facing him, her legs dangling over the side.

They looked at each other. Victoria wondered what he was thinking. The thought of him being attracted her to hadn't really occurred to her. First of all, she did not consider herself attractive, especially not with her only redeeming feature, her black-brown hair, clumped in dried chunks and hanging down her back, brushed only by her thin fingers. Second of all, he was very attractive, especially in his large, dark eyes, now the color of the sky at night with the moon just barely lighting the dark dome.

She pulled back just an inch, trying to break the moment. "Don't you..." she hesitated, searching. "Don't you have anyone at home who might be worried about you? Do they know where you are?"

"No, nobody," he replied, and it didn't seem to bother him. "What about you?"

"I have an Ex, "she sighed.

"Boyfriend?"

"Husband. We broke up around the time that I lost my license."

"What happened, you weren't a good enough meal ticket anymore?" Scathingly, as if he were wounded in her honor.

"No, actually, I left him," she said. She sighed, her hands in her lap, fingers loosely laced. She searched for the right words. "I just couldn't be married to him anymore."

"What kind of man was he?"

"He was a banker." She looked up and away, the image of him coming to her mind. "He was a good man. We met in college, got married right after I graduated from medical school. It didn't last long. I think it was my fault, I shouldn't have married him."

"Didn't you love him?"

"I did. But you know...some people...he was a moody person. I was never sure who I was going to be with every day. Either someone compassionate and caring, or someone snappy and distant. It was a little too much, his unpredictability. I knew it, I just ignored it, figuring I'd get to know him. But when the times got tough I just couldn't take anymore, so I walked out."

"You two still close?"

"He keeps tabs on me. Sometimes I think he wants me to come back to him. He's not as moody when he's around me, I think he blames himself, thinks he drove me away."

"He did."

"No, he didn't. I ran."

Vincent fell silent, and it made her uncomfortable, the thought of him digesting this information about her personal life. "I want to check your stitches," she said, putting on her best doctor's voice. Her fingers reached for the edge of the blanket, but his hand caught her wrist again.

This time, he didn't say anything.

He lifted her hand up, placed it gently on his shoulder. Then he let go, reached for her cheek, then stopped, as if suddenly realizing what he was doing.

She looked at him, watched him, wondering what he would do next. His fingers lightly touched her skin, his thumb grazing the skin underneath her chin.

"You don't know, do you?" he whispered.

"Know what?"

"How beautiful you are."

The words startled her, but she couldn't move. "Believe me, my face is anything but beautiful."

"It's not your face," he said, "not just your face, anyway. It's who you are."

"You don't know who I am any more than I know who you are, Vincent," she said, wishing like hell she could just get her head to move back, just a few inches, out of the reach of his hand. Her skin was tingling wherever he touched it. She had always known she found him attractive, but at this moment, he was outright breathtaking.

"Exactly," he said with a small smile, and she felt herself being drawn down toward him, his lips looming in the short distance, his eyes close enough to hers so that she could see the dark flecks in his irises.

When their lips met, she was more caught up in the sensation of his facial hair against her cheeks than the way his lips fit against hers. He didn't have a full mouth, but he seemed to use it well enough. She was just getting into the kiss when something like an alarm went off inside her head, and she turned her face to the side, getting a heavy scrape from his black and gray hairs against her skin. It felt almost as good as the kiss itself.

"Wait," she gasped, standing up, anything to get some distance between them. "We can't..."

"Why not?" He hadn't moved, but was holding her in place with his eyes, his huge, round, dark eyes, fixed on her. She couldn't see anything but that midnight blue, dancing in front of her, around her. "You're attracted to me. You always have been."

"That doesn't mean..."

He chuckled, cutting her off. "You and Max have a lot in common. You know, all you ever get is one night. That's it. If you don't take it, you wake up tomorrow, and it's gone, you're old, and you realize that everything you ever wished for didn't happen."

She straightened herself. Dammit if he was going to talk down to her like that. "You know what they say about being careful what you wish for, Vincent. You might get it."

He pursed his lips slightly, still looking at her, a silent reprimand. She managed to tear herself away, get back into her bed, and turn off the lights before he could say another word.

* * *

A/N: So close, and so far away. Heh heh. Well, more trouble awaits our pair. In the meantime, I have some responses to some reviewers. I LOVE YOU ALL! BIG KISS AND LOTS OF HUGS!

**SweetArwen**: That is high praise indeed! Better than accurate...well, a fanfic is only worth it if it gives  
you something a bit more than the movie did. So thanks very much.

**Byrony Cel**: Why would I ignore such a great idea, even if I already had it? I am working in that  
direction but it's going to be really hard because I have some moral issues I'm grappling with.  
I just can't see Vincent riding off into the sunset and living happily ever after, so there are  
going to be a lot of twists and turns before we get there. And I hope you like the new chapter.  
I love checking on my story every day and seeing all the great reviews all of you write.

**Sargonne**: Another incident of high praise! I take writing very seriously. While I do these fanfics for  
fun, I do write my own original stuff. Although I haven't been published for anything original, I plan  
to be one day. But fanfics are a great place to find your voice and practice your craft, get feedback  
from great people like yourself, develop as a writer. I don't know if I'll ever be able to give it up!

**Beguile**: I loved your comment about trouble not being far behind old Tommy Cruise. You know, I haven't  
enjoyed a role of his this much since Interview With A Vampire. He is so underrated as a villian. I  
think that was the big draw of this movie to begin with.


	5. Situations

_**Disclaimer: While I don't own Vincent, I do own Victoria and now Allen...although from this chapter, I think you'll be able to see that as no kind of threat. :) Heh.**_

A/N: How can I resist updating when I've got so many wonderful people begging for more? No, I'm not suffering from ego. I don't think...hmm...well, two more days until I get to see Collateral again! Right now Interview With The Vampire is on TV. Another great Cruise as villian role. Anyway, enjoy!

_**Situations**_

She fell into a hard sleep, one that lasted a long time, longer than she'd wanted. When she woke up, she saw that Vincent had already gone on his errands, and had brought back much more than a simple change of clothes.

She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, attempting to push down the tangled mess that was her hair. She sat there for a moment, listening to the sounds of someone in the bathroom - Vincent, no doubt. As if she was going to wake up from all of this and it was going to be ten years ago, she and Allen on their honeymoon...not that that was the greatest memory, only just her most pleasant, up to date.

She pushed off the covers and got up, looked at the clothes Vincent had lain on the chair both of them had occupied last night at some time or another. There was a dress, a rich blue-gray color, very dark and sleek. It was one of those dresses that professional women wore to the office, simple, straight up-and-down, no frills and yet totally elegant. It was sleeveless, with a straight across neck, zipped down the back. She held it up against her body, looked into the mirror.

Funny, she'd never owned a dress like this before. She'd had nowhere to wear it. Usually she had always stuck to her simple black skirt and whatever shirt she felt like wearing, if the need arose. Whatever had compelled Vincent to get this for her---

Her thoughts were cut off as he emerged from the bathroom. He didn't look any different than he had the night before he'd first come to her, except all the blood stains were gone. His shirt, immaculate white, obviously replaced, was open slightly at the neck, no tie. She got the feeling he really didn't like ties, just wore them when he had to. The blood had apparently come out of the jacket well enough that she couldn't see it.

"I also got you a brush and some other...accessories," he said, coming around the bed. She had let the dress slip down to her waist, covering her exposed legs. He stopped a few feet from her, looked up at her, gave her a casual smile.

"You going modest on me?" he asked coyly.

"I don't know when I wasn't being modest," she returned.

He nodded, acquiescing. "The other stuff is in the bathroom." He gestured behind him. "Go on, get dressed. We'll go for lunch."

Lunch...the clock blazed 1:30 P.M. at them. "I take it we missed checkout?"

"Yes, but it isn't a problem. I can't get a flight home until the day after tomorrow."

She nodded, but he didn't see it, as she was in the process of closing the door behind her.

He'd brought her a brush, a hat, a scarf, and some of that spray-in conditioner. She'd never used it, but figured it couldn't hurt, and when she was done her hair was almost back to normal. She wished he brought her something to tie her hair back with, as she usually had it up in a pony tail or a braid to keep it out of her way.

The hat was made of leather, had a visor like a baseball cap, and a wide, blossoming crown that suited her. She twisted her hair up and tucked it under the hat, finding it fit perfectly. She tied the scarf around her neck, a simply colored piece of silk and velvet that he had to have picked up in a tourist shop. It had the pattern of lilies on it, gray and white with black enhancements. The neck of the dress was wide, showing much more of her shoulders than she would have liked, but the scarf helped.

When she was done, she looked at herself and almost laughed. It was like she was playing dress up. And then it occurred to her that it was Vincent who was really dressing her up. The thought made her blush - she turned away from the mirror and stepped out of the bathroom.

He had gone to get ice and was sipping at some tap water when she came out. He looked her up and down, and Victoria struggled not to slow her pace across the room as if she were posing for him. "Nice," he said. "You look nice."

"Thank you for the stuff," she said. "But you really didn't have to go all out -"

"I didn't? Most of the women I know would have been complaining that they didn't have any make-up." He looked directly at her face, smiled. "You don't seem to need any."

"Well, with all the blushing I'm about to do, no, I'm sure I don't," she returned, a bit stiffly. "You said something about lunch?"

"Yeah, downstairs in the lobby. The desk said they make a good cheeseburger."

* * *

They didn't talk much at lunch. Vincent was very preoccupied, looking around all the time, watching everything in the room except her. She sipped at her iced tea, ordered another when that one was done, kept drinking. She had no idea what was going on. She wanted to ask him, but sensed he wouldn't say a word to her about their situation in public. But he was right - the cheeseburger was good.

They went right back upstairs when they were done and Victoria took off the hat and the scarf, plopped down in the seat across from where he'd had her clothes draped before, and waited.

Truth be told, she was bored out of her mind. Vincent seemed to sense it, sat down across from her, and said, "Okay, here's the situation."

She looked at him, worrying he was going to give her double-speak and riddles, but dismissed it, remembering Vincent's earlier pledge of always telling the truth. She also hoped that applied to speaking straight.

"There's obviously something rather big going down here concerning your friend Marcus Shakespeare," Vincent said. He had drawn the heavy curtains closed, making the room feel as dark as night. He had turned on the lamp beside them, and was leaning on the table, as close to her as he could get. "You aren't safe here, as they seemed to know that you work for him, and where you live. The early news this morning reported the hits at your office and the police are looking for you, which, considering you practice medicine illegally, is probably not a good thing, although I doubt they're after you to arrest you. More than likely they want you to lead them to Shakespeare. Arresting you will just be icing on the cake."

She flinched. She'd never thought of herself as a criminal before...even though she knew she was, in her own way.

"So, if you want to come back home with me, that's fine."

She knew she looked surprised, as Vincent was giving her one of his hurt expressions. "What, you think I dragged you all this way just to leave you behind? We're in this together, aren't we?"

She frowned. "Isn't that what you said to Max?"

His face fell, went blank. He pulled back, his eyes going inward, and she knew she'd somehow hurt him.

"I don't have my driver's license," she said, changing the subject.

He looked back at her, "You don't?"

"I didn't grab my purse when we left."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, I guess in all the confusion I just..._forgot_." She added the last word a bit harshly, as if it was really his fault.

"So you don't have any identification on you?" he asked.

"No. So I can't go anywhere. At least in jail I'd be safe."

He let out a rather loud, unexpected laugh. "Yeah," he said. "Safe as houses. Whatever. No, there's another way. We could try going back to your office, but if the police are watching, that's no good. What about your house?"

"What, you think I keep a back-up license beside my bed?" She shook her head. "No dice."

"What about a passport?"

She thought hard for a moment. "I think Allen has it," she said softly. "The only time I ever needed it was when we went on our honeymoon. We went to Paris, thinking it would be all romantic." She pushed the bitterness out of her voice, now really wasn't the time. "I kept it updated until we divorced, and I think I left it in the safe, which he took."

"So we could potentially go to Allen's house and get your passport," Vincent said. "That might work."

"Still, without a license, they aren't going to let me on a plane."

"It's worth a try," Vincent said. "It is legal government-issued identification. Not every single person in the United States has a driver's license. Do you know how to get into Allen's safe? Do you even have a key to his house?"

"Yes on both counts. But we have to go when he isn't there. I don't want him mixed up in this."

Vincent nodded. "I understand. When's the best time?"

She glanced at the clock. It was almost three. "He gets home at five. If we push it, we might beat him and get out before he comes back. Either that or we wait until tomorrow when he leaves for work."

* * *

When they pulled up, at 4:15, Allen's car was already sitting in the driveway. "Shit," she muttered under her breath.

Vincent glanced at her. "Why don't you just go in and get it? I'll wait here."

She looked back at him, incredulous. "You think he doesn't know something's wrong? You think he's just going to let me walk in and walk out without a dozen questions?"

"He's your ex-husband. Handle him," Vincent said with a shrug. "Talk yourself through it."

"It doesn't work that way," she muttered.

"Go on, Victoria. I'll wait here."

After a significant pause, when she realized he was serious, she got out of the car and made her way up the lawn. She imagined in her head the way Allen would react to seeing her. He would have a royal fit, that's what he would do. Allen was always high strung, prone to turn any molehill he could find into a mountain that rivaled Everest. First it would be carrying on about the news, about an illegal medical practice with her identification found at the scene along with four dead bodies, obviously the work of a highly-trained assassin. Or maybe she was being too dramatic - Allen's overactive imagination had somehow carried on to her during their years together and even to this day she had a hard time shaking it off. She herself wasn't an incredibly imaginative person. Not that she was dull, she told herself as she reached the front door.

Or maybe she was dull. As she saw that the door had already been opened, was still hanging open by a crack, she did not react in any creative way. Instead, she simply took a step back, her well-trained nose telling her that something inside did not smell right. It smelled like death.

A normal person would have freaked out. Instead, she felt rather calm inside. Professional calm, that was what it was. Dead people weren't out of the ordinary for her. Of course, this was the first time the dead person was someone she knew, intimately-

A hand gripped her forearm from behind. Vincent was at her side, pushing her through the door, his gun drawn. He let her go in the foyer, pushing her into a safe hollow in the wall, after he had already made sure there was no one else in the vicinity. He pressed into the room, looking around everywhere, his eyes crawling over everything, missing nothing. He disappeared for a few minutes, into another room, then slid into the kitchen. He stopped as he went around the island counter.

"Victoria," he said calmly.

She took it as an indication that he wanted her to come to him. But as he approached, he put his hand out. Finally, his eyes turned to her, and she knew.

She shoved his hand away, stepped forward. Allen lay at her feet. He'd been shot right through the forehead, by a hollowpoint. The back of his skull had sprayed across the dark brown tile of the kitchen floor.

Victoria's knees went weak, and she felt Vincent catch her and put her into one of the dining room table's chairs, out of sight of the body. It was a few moments before he came back to her, his hands gently resting on her shoulders.

"Breathe, Victoria," he said calmly. "Come on, breathe."

"You and your fucking breathing," she said, shoving his hand away, getting up. She glared at him. "Fuck you!"

"Hey, this isn't my fault. I didn't do this." Rational, his voice and words were so rational and calm. "If I hadn't pulled you out of your office that night, you would be dead, too."

"They shot him because they were looking for me!" Victoria snapped.

"So, you're saying you'd rather it be you than him?" He looked incredulous. "So much for your self-preservation instinct."

She shook her head, knowing she was inches away from hysterics, but would not let her self fall apart in front of Vincent. "Why...why did they do this? I mean, there wasn't any point in killing him..."

"No witnesses. No one to say who was looking for you. Same with you, from before. Whoever found the mess we made obviously thinks you do know something."

"So then this is your fault," she said slowly, accusingly.

He shrugged. "Like I said, you'd be dead otherwise. Now go get your passport, we're leaving."

She just glared at him, fists clenched hard.

"Victoria," Vincent said, stepping a little closer to her. "Come on, wake up. You want to die? Then you can stay here. Worse, you can go to prison, where you'll wish you were dead. Pretty girl like you won't last a few months. Unless changing your sexual orientation is something you were planning to do next month."

"Fuck off," she growled, tearing away from him and storming into Allen's study. She got her passport, and followed him back out to the car, not speaking to him again for the rest of the time the sun was in the sky.

* * *

What Vincent saw for the rest of that day was nothing more than a lump of comforter that shook and trembled regularly, as if powered by an electric motor. But Victoria did not care. All she could do was sob, and sob, and then sob some more, her cries sometimes going up in pitch, her voice giving up and becoming nothing more than the croaking sound of her trying to take in air. Her chest ached, her face streamed, her nose ran, and she didn't care. She didn't think she would ever stop crying, not ever. Just when she thought she was done, when her sobs quieted and became just low, trembling mews, something would pop into her head, some memory - taking pictures of each other outside of the Eiffel tower, picking out a new bed for their new home, the time they had bought a puppy together, then wound up having to give it to his niece because it turned out he was allergic.

She couldn't bear for Vincent to see her, though, and if she felt the urge to blow her nose, she used the sheet. It had bunched up again, too loose for the bed, and she treated it like a giant handkerchief. Eventually, though, she did calm. How long she cried, even she didn't know. She didn't want to stop herself. Maybe she could cry herself to death, and go join Allen in whatever place he'd been sent to. Most likely Purgatory. Allen was no saint.

In spite of the fact that it hadn't worked between them, Allen had been a part of her life. He'd been her husband. Bonds like that never really broke, they just stretched until they were so thin they hardly existed. They hadn't gotten to that point. She knew that someday they would. He was dating someone in his office, on and off. It wasn't serious, but Victoria had met her once and liked her, a clear indication that eventually it would become serious. Allen seemed to have an unwavering trust in her judgement. Possibly the reason why he never pressed her very hard to know what she was doing for a living and how. The poor man...she'd let him stay in the dark, knowing if he ever did find out the truth, she may as well hang herself, as that would be the only way to assuage his shock and hurt.

Poor Allen...it wasn't his fault that he was dead. He hadn't done anything to deserve it. He was just living his life, she was living hers...why would they shoot him? It didn't make sense. It just didn't work for her. Some goons show up at his house, start asking about her, he gets defensive. They notice how high strung he is, think he's a possible liability, find out that he knows nothing, then shoot him to make sure it stays that way. Just another body...nobody cares.

Men who looked like the ones who had come to see her. Men in dark suits, some cheap, some expensive, not quite as high class as government agents but just as deadly.

Men like Vincent, who killed without hesitation.

The thought brought a surge of anger through her body, pushing away, for a moment, the swell of new tears that was rising in her throat. She reached out and arm and shoved the blanket away, sat up. Vincent looked over at her, and she realized for the first time he'd been watching television, a jazz concert on public television. The volume was so low, the sound was more like a background hum than music.

Seeing her expression, Vincent waited for her to say something. But words failed her. As he said before, it wasn't his fault. He didn't do it. He'd saved her. It was the truth. And he hadn't had to save her. He'd done it just out of the goodness of his heart. If such a thing existed.

"Yes?" he said softly, prompting her. She found that all she could do was sniff. She reached down, pulled out the rest of the sheet, and lumped it into a ball, like a giant used wad of Kleenex. Then she got out of bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

A/N: Sometimes I can be such an awful tease. Reviews will bring the next chapter quicker! It's already done and waiting....in the meantime, here are some responses:

**Sweet Treats**: Oh, Sweet Treats...you reviews were very sweet, and absolutel hysterical. "A fat kid loves cake." You know, you really seem to have an appropriate nickname. And don't die, I've got a lot of this plot already mapped out so I should be able to keep updating daily.

**CrazyCat1**: What, only 3 reviews? Why not 4, for chapter 4, when they get all...well, If you haven't read it  
I"m not going to spoil it for you. I appreciate the reassurance from you, and from everyone else, about  
Vincent being in character. It's sort of difficult to make sure he stays as a bad-ass sociopath with his  
strange tendencies to care about the people around him for whatever reason. It's a fine line to walk.  
Thanks for the thumbs up.

**Chips Ahoy**: What is it with you people, you're making me hungry! Mmmm...chocolate chip cookies...  
I can smell them now...huh, what? Oh, your reviews. You're not allowed to die either. I will update  
soon...you guys all make it very hard not to update twice a day! But I have to moderate, let it last.  
IT will be better if it lasts a little bit, don't you agree? DOn't want the fun to be over too soon!

**Warm Mittens**: That is such a cute screen name. Anyway, yeah, Vincent was a lot of things, but he wasn't  
a heartless guy. NOt really. I mean, he had a job. He did it. He didn't want to kill Daniel, you could  
tell by the way he caught his face before it hit the table. IT was almost...sweet. If killing people  
could ever be described that way. I'm telling everyone to go see Collateral...I'm even dragging two of  
my friends to it on Wednesday night. (so there might be no update that night...hmmm...we shall see...)

**acrossthenight**: There you are! Glad to know I didn't lose you. THank you for your comments about Victoria.  
You know, when you're creating an original character, the absolute best advice I could ever give anyone is  
to let the character discover themselves. You don't really "create" a character, you really discover them.  
Because the only good characters are people you can know. Good characters are as complex and real live people. I am rather proud of how Victoria is turning out. And I don't feel I can take full credit for her, either. She just...is.

**firegoddess164**: Green, thanks for telling me. I just couldn't tell, so I went with what I thought. But I like being accurate.

**Sargonne**: Ah, yes, beautiful tension! My choir director is always so excited about tension. Isn't it a wonderful thing? Wait until the next chapter, it gets a LOT worse. Victoria is in really bad shape there. I don't think so much that she refused as that she just didn't think that he was serious. It was something that I thought was a little out of character for him. I just can't see Vincent being all seductive, but I know it's there...hmmm...well, I'll just let you find out what happens. And yes, I would be honored to read your  
story, just let me know when you write it and when you post it! I hope more people do write Collateral fanfic  
because I'm interested to see everyone's take on it. Each story is unique, simply because every person who writes it is different. Stole that from Neil Gaiman. Don't tell him. (grin)

**Byrony Cel**: Drama! Drama! Drama! You'll love the next two chapters. No, no sunset. But man, I am really stuck. It's going to be really tricky to do this right. Please keep letting me know what you think and if I screw up big time, I'm always open to fixing things.

Thanks! Candy for everyone!


	6. Reasons

**_ Disclaimer: Don't own anything in the movie Collateral, I only own Victoria. And Allen, but he bit it big time. SIGH _**

Special Note to **Warm Mittens**: Awwww...don't cry! Here, here's your hug! {{BIG HUG}} You are so sweet, girlfriend. I so didn't mean to make you cry...here, this chapter should make you feel a little bit better. I'm updating just for you. :)

**_Reasons_**

She didn't need to bathe. She'd already bathed the day before. She hardly smelled like anything, as she hadn't done anything that day except get dressed and go find her dead ex-husband.

She ran the hot water, filling up the large, deep tub. There wasn't any bubblebath, but there was some bath salt, so she dumped it in, turning the water a milky off-white. When she stepped in, it was steaming like a bowl of soup, and she sank all the way to the bottom without so much as sucking in her breath. She lay back, trying to calm herself. She had the aftereffects of crying stuck in her throat, the hiccupping breaths that took forever to go away. She closed her eyes, tried to focus herself, tried everything she could think of to make herself calm down, but knew, eventually, that there was no way that was going to happen. Her logical doctor mind told her she was grieving. Grieving was a process. Denial, bargaining, anger, acceptance...she couldn't think straight enough to figure them all out. Something else, a fifth one...who the hell cared. She just wanted to lay her head back, sink down, drown. She'd just be another corpse on the mortician's slab that night. The thought was oddly peaceful. She slipped down far enough so that her lips went under water, but her nose stayed above, keeping her supplied with air. She wasn't going to kill herself. But dammit if she would ever be able to smile again.

The water started to cool down. Her back started to ache from resting against the hard basin of the tub. She didn't want to get out yet, so she leaned forward, pulling her knees up to her chest, folding her arms in front of her, burying her face there, just staring into space, trying not to think of anything.

There was a gentle rap at the door. It opened slightly, and a hand came through, holding one of the hotel room's drinking glasses, filled with a few fingers of some kind of alcohol. He shook the glass, making the ice tingle.

Then the rest of him appeared. He had his hand over his eyes, allowing her her modesty, and since she wasn't screaming at him to get out, he was assuming it was safe to come in. He peeked at her though his fingers, saw she was shielding anything she didn't want to be seen, and then dropped his hand. He put the glass on the wide rim of the tub. She looked at it for a moment, then picked it up. He sat down on the sink.

"How to you feel?" he asked. She almost choked on the whiskey, good old Jim Beam, left a burning trail down her throat that hurt more than usual after all the crying she'd been doing. It wasn't the pain that made her choke, it was the simple idiocy of the question. Something a doctor would ask.

She put the glass down, looked over at him. Her throat hurt too much to speak, so she just shifted her shoulders up in a shrug.

He nodded. "I understand. I do. But you have to pull together. We're checking out tomorrow. We're going to go over to the Renaissance."

"Why?" she croaked, surprised.

"Not good to stay in one place too long. Now that...well, things have happened, people are going to start looking for you in particular who aren't criminals. You want them to find you?"

She blinked slowly, her eyes aching with all the tears she'd shed. "I guess not," she murmured. She closed her eyes, rested her head on her arms, feeling so weary. She hadn't meant to become a criminal, let alone a fugitive from the law. It wasn't fair, this awful deal she had been handed in life. Had God totally abandoned her? What was she going to do?

Vincent reached out, pulling one of her wet locks of hair from where it stuck to the side of her face. The back of his fingers stroked her hair, just over her ear. She opened her eyes, looked at him.

"Come on, Vic," he said, his voice so soft, so compassionate. "I'll go, you get out and dry off. I brought you a sleep-shirt, too. One of those silly, cutesy things with a cartoon cat on it, saying he doesn't do mornings."

In spite of herself, she gave him a small smile. "Okay," she whispered. She picked up her glass, finished the whiskey, and handed it to him, as his hand was out and waiting for it. He gave her a last, small smile and left her in peace, as he promised. For her end, she did get out and dry off, letting her hair stay wet, even though it was neatly combed this time. Vincent had put the shirt on the sink and it was just as he'd described it.

When she came out of the bathroom and saw her bed, she realized how tired she was. She didn't feel she had the right to be that tired, as it was only eight o'clock in the evening, and she hadn't done much that day. Unless you counted crying for nearly four hours. It did take a lot out of her. She made her way around her bed, stopped at the foot, sat down.

She didn't care. She didn't care what happened to her. She didn't care about anything. She felt totally numb. She wished she could just shut her eyes, and disappear. She actually tried it, letting her eyelids flutter shut.

"Victoria, I poured you another drink if you want it," came Vincent's gentle, cajoling voice. Opening her eyes, she sighed, stood up and made her way to the table between the beds. There were four fingers of whiskey in the glass now, and she raised it to her lips, taking a very healthy swallow. She let it burn down her throat; let the bitter taste snap at her tongue, relishing the unpleasantness of it. She finished the glass in another swig, opened her eyes, saw Vincent looking up at her, his lips twisted into an expression of admiration.

"You want some more?" he asked. "Although to be honest, alcohol doesn't dull the pain. It's a mood enhancer. If you're depressed, it will only make you more depressed."

"Then why do people drink when they're sad?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Gluttons for punishment. Misery does love company."

She sighed, sitting down. It took her a second to realize she was sitting on his bed, exactly as she had the night before. He was still fully dressed, gray pants, white shirt, now mostly open. She reached up a hand and checked to make sure that the gauze was still clean.

"It's pretty much stopped bleeding," he said. "It's started to itch a little."

"Good sign," she nearly slurred. "Means it's healing."

He nodded, looked at her. "How about you, do you itch? Are you healing?"

She raised her eyes to meet his. It took more effort than she would have liked. Hell, it was only three shots of whiskey. On an empty stomach. After a very difficult day. What was she going to say again? Oh, yeah. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Never," he said, and she could not tell if he was serious. She leaned closer to him.

"Am I drunk?" she asked.

"Probably pretty buzzed." She realized he was flipping idly through a magazine, sitting on his lap. "No body could possibly blame you, though."

She reached out, pulled the magazine off his lap and tossed it onto her bed. "What about you, do you blame me?"

"Not at all," he said, softer, his smile so sweet. She smiled back at him, leaned closer, smelling his aftershave. It wasn't cheap - he must have carried something expensive on him, or bought it downstairs. It was like linen...crisp and fresh.

His lips were so close to hers. She reached up, cradled his face between her hands, her palms tingling with the contact of his rough goatee. She wanted to run the soft insides of her fingers across it, but instead, she leaned in even closer and kissed him.

He kissed her back.

It occurred to her, in the part of her mind that wasn't completely controlled by the combination of alcohol and grief, that he had kissed her first, the other night. So drunk or not, she could have very rightly kissed him, as he seemed to be encouraging some kind of romantic liaison between them. She wanted to ask him if he seduced all his lady hostages, but knew he would be offended by her referring to herself as a hostage, as he claimed he was protecting her. And again, the question of WHY he was protecting her, what was her importance to him, it couldn't just be out of the goodness of his heart, that didn't fit in with him. Or did it?

The part of her brain that was controlled by her grief and alcohol intake told the rest of it to shut up. He had his arms around her now, holding her close as she explored his mouth, massaging his lips with her own, gently and entirely at her own pace. He let her go on so long that she began to think he was just waiting for her to stop, so she did, in a moment of hesitancy. She pulled back.

His arms were firm around her waist, her back. She gazed down at him. Then she set her head down on his chest, wrapping herself around him. He shifted, giving her more room on the bed, the warmth he'd created underneath him filling her up with the movement. He held her there for a bit, silent and gazing out the window, waiting for whatever she was going to do next.

After a time, she began to grow uncomfortable with the closeness, and began to shift in his arms, almost pushing him away. He loosened his grip and she half sat-up, looking away.

"What is it?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't think, there was just too much in her head.

"Victoria?" A hand gently lifted her face to meet his. She gazed into his eyes, those cold, soulless eyes. How could something so beautiful be so empty? She saw nothing more there than she had on the first night she'd met him.

She almost laughed. "This is ridiculous," she said, although it wasn't for his benefit.

He shook his head, pulling her closer. She would have fought him if she'd had the strength, but the thought of completely letting go of him was a bit unbearable at the moment. She would start crying again, and she didn't want that.

"No, it isn't," he assured her. She was beside him now, almost prone next to him. They looked at each other, and she felt utterly foolish.

"Yes it is," she said, again more to herself. "You want to get laid and I'm the only piece of pussy in the room."

To her surprise, he laughed softly. "You shouldn't talk about yourself like that. It isn't true." He pulled her closer, so close she was tempted to kiss him again, just because it made being this close to him less complicated.

"The heartless assassin is trying to make me feel better." Who in the hell _was_ she talking to, anyway? Or worse yet, who was talking through her? "Don't play pretend, Vincent."

"I'm not playing." He stroked her hair, her shoulder, down to her chest. She felt the first caress of his hand beside her breast, wanting to envelop it in his palm, but waiting. "Tell me what you want, Victoria."

"What I want?"

"What you want me to do. Tell me and I'll do it."

It was her turn to almost laugh. "Right."

"Seriously." Gently, his hand cupped her left breast, his thumb working at the nipple through the cotton of her shirt. She felt herself respond. "Tell me. Talk to me."

She was on fire, either from the alcohol or from the images that suddenly flashed into her mind. There was no way in hell she was going to tell him...she'd never even told Allen. It wasn't a big surprise that the two of them hadn't had much of a sex life. Then the thought of Allen made her close her eyes, flinch, turn away.

"No, no, Victoria," Vincent whispered, pulling her back, "stay with me. Tell me." He kissed her, moved his mouth down her chin, down her neck. "Tell me," he whispered against her skin. "Tell me."

Whether she told him or not, for that moment, he seemed to know exactly what to do. Various parts of her began to awaken; her body grew a mind of its own. Her hormones made her mouth open, started pushing out the dark secrets, things she had never told anyone, things she was ashamed to have rolling around inside her head.

And he did them. He did all of them. _(A/N: Sorry guys, gotta keep my PG-13 rating!)_

* * *

She slept for maybe an hour. Four o'clock blazed at her from the digital on the table. Ignoring the ache throughout her entire body, particularly down below, she pulled herself upright.

She was keenly aware, after a few seconds, that Vincent was already awake. She doubted he'd ever gone to sleep. The man didn't seem to sleep much at all. She got up from the bed, walked a bit unsteadily toward the other end of the room. Not the bathroom, but toward the window.

They had a good room. The window was floor to ceiling, the entire west wall of the hotel room. The carpet was in good shape, sinking under her feet as she walked. She wished she knew where he was hiding the rest of the Jim Beam. She considered asking him, but knew she was lucky so far that he hadn't asked her where she was going. It was a stupid question, though. Any idiot could see she was just going across the room.

She found a wide, empty spot on the floor right beside the window, sat down. She curled herself against the window, knees pulled up, legs bare against the cool glass. She rested her shoulder against it, too, so she could look directly down. They weren't that high up. Six or seven floors, she wasn't sure. There were a lot of lights outside, though. They weren't far from the airport at all.

The light spread over her arms, which were wrapped around her knees in front of her. There were various red spots along her wrist - almost hard enough to bruise. He hadn't gone as far as she would have liked, probably still able to be logical enough to realize that visible bruising would lead to suspicions, possibly questions they didn't want to answer. She sighed deeply, her breath frosting up the glass. Idly she began to draw on the fogged spot with her finger. Sure, he was great in bed. But she wasn't stupid enough to think it meant anything to him. No matter how generous he'd been.

He got up so silently that when she saw his reflection above her in the glass she gave a little start. "You okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she said, looking back out the window.

"Liar," he said, sitting down beside her, also against the glass. Part of her was very annoyed that he did this, that he was invading her privacy, that she just wanted him to go away for five minutes so she could think clearly. The other part of her told her to just shut up. Sex changed things. He probably was very well aware of that. As much as she wanted to resent him for being so calculating, she could not simply shove him away and expect it to be okay with him. He probably knew that, too. She wanted to cuss at him, found she lacked the venom, went back to staring out the window again.

"I want to stay here," she said, lifting up her head and resting her cheek, which was still bright pink from exertion, against the glass, letting it cool her face.

"Here, at this hotel?"

"In L.A. I don't leave. I want to stay here and find out who killed Allen, and I want to kill the bastard who did it."

Vincent looked at her very calmly, as if seriously considering her words.

She lifted up her cheek, a silly idea coming to her. Very little point in holding back, she thought. "How much do you charge?"

"I'm sorry?"

"For a hit. How much do you charge? Could I pay you to do it? Find out who killed Allen?"

He shook his head. "It's very expensive, Victoria. I don't think you could afford it."

"I could afford it. I've got a lot more saved than you think."

"Yeah, well, I don't want you blowing it all on me. Besides, that's not who you are. You want revenge, that's human, that's fine. But you'll regret it later. You said so yourself, you give life, you don't take it away. You and I are opposites. You don't try to be me, and I won't try to be you."

His words were spoken in such a way, like a parent trying to reason with an upset child, but not at all patronizing.

"A hit man is telling me not to seek revenge," she muttered.

"An assassin is being reasonable with a potential client," he replied. "You're emotional. If you still feel that way in a few days, ask me again."

She almost stood up in her surprise. "A few days?" As if she'd thought that all of this was going to be over soon..._stupid girl, of course, it wasn't_, her rational voice said.

He was about to say something else, but someone suddenly blasted the heavy bolt right off their hotel room door with a very loud explosion, and light from the hallway flooded the room.

* * *

A/N: And the torture Continues! Ha ha! So sorry, no responses today, I got behind and had a bunch of other stuff to do, so I figured I'd stick with writing the upcoming chapter 7, since that's what everyone is here for, anyway. But keep reviewing, and I'll respond to you as soon as I can! Thanks, kisses and hugs for everyone!


	7. Claudia

**_Disclaimer: Don't own Collateral. _**

A/N: Yay! Tonight I get to go see the movie again! It will be weird, though...the first time I've seen it since I started writing this fanfic. I wonder if the ending will feel different...hmm...anyhoo, I've been listening to this new CD lately by an artist called Jem -- no, not Jem and the Holograms, a new artist, she's kinda blusey, kind of like Dido only a bit more upbeat. There are a few songs on there that totally go along with this fic. I'll post some lyrics in a later chapter.

All right, I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Let's get to it!

**_Claudia_**

Vincent disappeared so quickly from beside her that she didn't actually see it happen; she only saw the faint blur of his silver-gray hair go past her. Her first instinct was to cover her nudity - she hadn't gotten dressed again, still flushed from her earlier exertions. It was a mistake, she knew that now, but then again, one never expected an ambush.

The man who entered the room was low-level street trash, carrying a very large shotgun. Whether he actually dressed like that because he liked it or if it was a disguise was something for Vincent to know, but he had disappeared into the shadow and Victoria was starting to wonder what in the hell he was doing.

The man walked into the room, got three wide paces, and then was abruptly shot from behind. Vincent had just stood up, shorts back on, protecting his own dignity. He'd found his gun, not that there was ever any question of that, and was aiming it toward the dead body. For a moment, Victoria was sure he had shot him, but as the man fell, there was another figure behind him.

A woman.

She slowly stepped into the large rectangle of light, tall enough so that her head and shoulders remained in shadows. She was all in black from the neck down, the only color on her being her very long, straight, golden blond hair. Victoria couldn't see her face.

The woman, however, could see her, and quite well. "Seems I've interrupted something," she said, her voice low and smooth, the same kinds of tones Vincent used during moments of tension.

"Claudia?" There was actual surprise in his voice, although his stance belayed none of it.

"Hey Vince." Equally surprised, hiding it better. They were aiming their guns at each other, a perfect stand-off. "Didn't know you'd gone private."

"For a while now," he said, although is tone clearly showed he would rather have said nothing. "How about you?"

"Even longer," she replied, equally tense. "You know, I did just save you from a very unprofessional hit man, you can put down your gun."

"You first."

She did so, without having to be asked again. She even put it away, then put her hands up. "Come on, Vince. You're not going to shoot me, are you?"

"Maybe not right this second."

"Aw. Still bitter? You knew it was over, I can't believe you're still holding that against me."

Slowly, he lowered his gun. He stepped closer to the light, his shadow falling across Victoria somewhat, shielding her. "These things are never personal, Claudia."

"Right," Claudia replied. She glanced down at Victoria, who was growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute. "So, you going to continue to let your new girlfriend sit there, naked as a jaybird? Or are you going to give her some dignity?"

Victoria didn't see it, but the muscles in Vincent's cheek twitched, a very clear sign of his annoyance. "Victoria," he said, "get up, cover yourself."

_Cover yourself_. Like she was a whore. She scowled, standing up, no longer caring who the hell saw her. She stepped out of the light, into the shadows, pulled her sleep-shirt out from where it had been tossed and then somehow shoved under the bed and put it on. She looked around for her underwear, only found her jeans.

"I'm surprised at you, Vincent," she said. "You know people like us aren't supposed to get involved with our clients."

"What are you doing here, Claudia?" Vincent was saying, not moving from where he stood, not giving her a single inch of the room.

Claudia pushed the door shut behind her, although nothing kept it shut. It was only a matter of time before security showed up, and then, the police. It was amazing that they hadn't arrived already, but this was real life, not the movies.

"I work for Marcus Shakespeare," she said, her voice lowered. Pushing the door shut had put the whole room back into darkness, so she reached for the nearest switch, turning on the lamps in the middle of the room. Victoria saw her underwear underneath the other bed. She didn't bother, just put the jeans on, commando.

"Do you?" Conversationally, as if they were at a party and they were two strangers getting to know each other.

"Yes, he heard about what happened at your office, Dr. Potter." Victoria turned around and saw the woman looking at her, addressing her directly. Well, at least that was some sign of respect. Still, Vincent didn't move, continued to stand between them like the Berlin Wall.

"And?" Vincent pressed. "How did you find us? How did you know that guy was coming up here? Your entrance is too perfectly timed, Claudia. It makes me suspicious."

"Mr. Shakespeare sent me to find her," Claudia answered.

"And how did you find us?"

"With difficulty. I saw that guy creeping around here when I showed up, I have no idea who he was. I wound up following him up here; I guess luck was on my side. Or yours, depends on how you look at it. But now I know why it was so hard to find you. Are you involved in this, Vincent?"

"Only because I happened to be in her office when a few thugs came around and wanted her to tell them where to find her former patient."

"Ah, so it was you who killed them," Claudia said, understanding. "That makes sense. But I don't get why you're still here."

"Are you trying to ask me if someone's paid me to be here?" Vincent asked. "Because you know damn well I'm not going to answer that."

Claudia shrugged. "At any rate," she continued, "Dr. Potter, Mr. Shakespeare was concerned for your safety. He's rather fond of you."

"How is he?" Victoria asked, sitting down to put on her shoes. She was suddenly sounding like a doctor again, all professionalism.

"He's alive, and going to stay that way," Claudia replied. "He would like you to come pay him another visit, though. So he can see with his own eyes that you're safe."

Victoria stared up at Claudia, taking in her features. She had the appearance of someone who had deliberately altered her face on more than one occasion. Her eyebrows were non-existent, painted on with an eyebrow pen, and her large blue eyes seemed distant and icy. She was a beautiful woman, the kind of haughty loveliness found on the covers of Cosmo and other fashion magazines. But she wore no make-up, her pale features blending together at the moment, non-striking except for her eyes, which took in everything.

Just like Vincent. So there was a certain look that assassins had.

"Sorry, Claudia," Vincent was saying. "That's not going to happen."

"So she _is_ under your protection?" Claudia asked, unfazed.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

A nasty little half-smile curled the corner of Claudia's lip. "Okay. Fine. My boss trusts me, I'll just tell him he'll have to take my word for it. But if I were you, Dr. Potter, I would stay close to Vincent, if you can trust him. He's never failed to reach an objective yet."

She turned, left the room, leaving them alone with a blasted door and a dead body. Vincent picked up the shotgun, turned to Victoria, tossed it onto her bed.

"Take that, and pack up. We're leaving."

* * *

Before she knew it, they were creeping down the back stairs and out into a parking lot. Vincent seemed to have eyes in every direction. He dragged her through the lot and into the street, which was deserted this late. They continued to walk, quickly but not at too fast of a pace, until they reached another hotel. It was the Renaissance.

"They won't let us check in this late," Victoria said to him in a low voice.

"We're not checking in," Vincent said. He pointed. A taxi sat at the stand, alone. There was a doorman there, and Vincent tipped him a few dollars before pulling Victoria into the back seat with him.

"Pasadena," Vincent said.

"You got it," the driver said, an older white man. Vincent turned to Victoria with a small smile. She looked away, out the window. They drove to Pasadena in silence.

Not complete silence. As they reached the 110 Harbor Freeway, Vincent struck up a conversation with the driver, asking him if he'd been to Pasadena often, if he knew of any good hotels. The driver was not a big chatter, but he had plenty of useful information, and Vincent seemed to like him well enough. He gave him a very healthy tip.

They arrived at the Marriott just outside of the old town area. The entrance was long and grand, gilded with black enamel. The inside lobby, quiet for five in the morning, was luxury to Victoria's tired eyes. Vincent checked them in, as Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Princeton. He even had a credit card with that name on it.

In the elevator, she finally turned and looked at him. Stared at him. A million questions bubbled in her mind, none of them could quite make their way out.

"What?" he asked, "don't just look at me, ask what you want to ask."

"Claudia," she managed.

He chuckled. "Don't tell me you're jealous."

"Why would I be jealous?"

"You're a woman, aren't you? All women are jealous."

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Vincent waited for her to step out, which she did, but he took the lead quickly, the only one of them who knew where their hotel room was.

Once inside, Victoria found another question. "You two knew each other. From where?"

"A long, long time ago," Vincent said, taking off his suit coat and hanging it up. This room had only one large, king-sized bed. She flushed when she saw it, sat down in the small love-seat on the other end of the room. "It's a very long story."

She snorted, the stony façade starting to crack. "Typical male. You know everything about me, and I don't know shit about you."

"You know about me," he replied.

"Sure, I know all about one night of your life." She glared at him, sat back.

"Fair enough." He came around, sat down on the bed in front of her, leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, hands pressed lightly together. "I told you a long time ago about how my mother died before I knew her, how my father died of liver disease when I was twelve."

She blinked a few times. She did remember. She'd found a particular old and ugly scar on his back when she was stitching him up after a run in with a man that had a very sharp knife. He'd told her then about his father...about the abuse. She felt ashamed for a moment...she knew about him, she just didn't have the courtesy to remember.

"Yeah, I remember now," she whispered.

"Well, I spent a lot of time in foster homes. None of them ever really worked out, I wasn't exactly the kind of kid that people wanted to keep. I spent a lot of time in half-way houses, and Claudia was one of my housemates."

Victoria arched an eyebrow. "You were just kids."

"We were both seventeen. We were both angry, came from similar backgrounds. Back then, we were nearly inseparable, kind of like a gang, but with only two people. We watched each other's backs - you saw what she looks like, she needed it in places like that. She went to jail on her eighteenth birthday after killing a guy who got too fresh with her in the communal bathroom. When she got out, I caught up with her. By then, I had already been recruited for my new career."

_His new career_..."You mean, they took you right from an orphanage?"

"Sort of a sentimental way of looking at it, but yeah, pretty much that's how it happened. I had a certain temperament that they looked for. When Claudia got out, it turned out they liked her, too. We were together for a few years, then we parted ways." He shrugged. "That's sort of the way it goes."

"Why did you break up?"

"She left me," Vincent said. "Best reason there is."

"No, but _why?_" she pressed.

He shrugged. He didn't say a single word for several minutes, went about looking around their new room, checking it out. The sun was starting to come up. "I'm famished," he finally said. "How about you?"

"Breakfast sounds good," she murmured, defeated.

"I think they were opening up the restaurant downstairs when we came in, for the early crowd. Let's go check it out."

At breakfast, Victoria munched on some scrambled eggs. Her appetite wasn't as big as his. He wolfed down an order of steak and eggs, the eggs sunny-side up, plus three pieces of toast and two rounds of sausage.

"Why didn't you let me go with Claudia?" Victoria asked absently, as Vincent got ready to pay the check.

"Did you _want _to go with her?"

"Whether I did or didn't doesn't matter. You weren't going to let me."

"No, I wasn't." He looked up at her, putting the bills on the table. The man was a very generous tipper, and the waitress had been very good, keeping his coffee mug refilled and warm at every turn. The man drank coffee like water this morning. She wondered if it was a sign of tension.

"Why not? She said she worked for--"

He shushed her. "She _said_ she worked for him. That doesn't mean she does. And even if she does, that doesn't make her intentions honorable."

"So you don't trust her, or...him."

"I don't trust anyone." He smiled. "Bad for business. Besides, there were too many things about that situation I didn't like. It's too coincidental, her being there exactly when some punk tries to take a shot as us."

"You don't like coincidences."

"I don't believe in them, not really."

"And yet you believe we're all insignificant specks of dust."

He shrugged. "I'm funny that way. Come on, the sun's up, let's go for a walk."

* * *

A/N: Sorry if it's a bit short today. Don't worry, next chapter coming tomorrow! In the meantime, I got my act together and here are some replies: 

**Sweet Treats**: You are a kick, girl. A big one. I love fluffy pillows! PILLOW FIGHT!  
(whaps at Sweet Treats with my own goose-down blue pillow) Oh, man, the feathers are  
coming out! Sorry, gotta stop. Can't lose my feathers. If you think this chapter was  
sweet, wait until chapter 9. But that's just being a tease, isn't it? and thanks for  
the word of mouth! This isn't the only fanfic I've written for , so if you're  
a From Dusk Till Dawn fan, there's a pretty good fanfic on that page. But anyway...  
I like that word...exquisite. Don't worry, new chapter is here and another one is coming  
tomorrow! And that makes two people that have cried over Allen...geeze, even I didn't get  
that upset! Maybe I'm just heartless...well, I guess I Have to be, I just kill off characters  
at a moment's notice. Watch out!

**Warm Mittens**: Feeling any better? I hope so. And I am incredibly flattered by  
your comment about the ending of the movie not bothering you anymore because of  
my fanfic. That is incredibly high praise indeed. I just got done writing Ch. 8, and  
man, did things get INTENSE! Can't wait for you to see it. And you are so welcome  
for the special note. And cliff hangars are FUN! Aren't they? You feel free to write  
as long a review as you want...you can even email me, my email is on my page.  
P.S., don't worry about the intimacy thing. I really want to keep this as "clean"  
as possible. No graphic descriptions, it'll be fine.

Sorry, **PAR! **I know you'd love a triple XXX, but I gotta take care of the kiddies, you  
know. Heh. You know, I was really flattered about what you said. I know exactly where  
you're coming from, when life gets rough, and it's nice to have something to look forward  
to when your day is over. But I must warn you--we are at least half-way through this story,  
unless I am suddenly inspired with a sequel. I am a teacher and school starts for me right after  
Labor Day, which is going to reduce my writing time substantially, so I want to have most of  
this finished by then. But you can always re-read! I love re-reading stories that I enjoy.

**SweetArwen**: I do know exactly what you're staying, and thank you. I am going to wind  
up putting my own touches on the character, but as long as they're good touches, that's  
fine. I'm glad you're enjoying the fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it!  
I'm up to chapter 10, for which I really need to see the movie again, get the action  
stuff down a little better...just dropped a hint for what was to come...heh heh. rubs hands  
together wickedly

**Bryony Cel**: You are too kind...but read Chapter 7 before you judge if I've screwed  
things up because it's kind of a turn everything on its head chapter, where the plot sort of flies out  
everywhere. I'll be awaiting your comments! Ummm...but if you're reading this...you have read  
chapter seven...ummm...nevermind. It's kinda late for me. Heh.

**firegoddess164**: Yep, I knew I'd fit it in there somewhere. But just wait, I'm sure I'll  
mess everything up yet for our two "lovebirds." Although Vincent was incredibly sweet,  
wasn't he? He has certain...hidden...charms. Heh heh.

Only...hm...nine hours to go before I see Collateral. Dear God, I am obsessed...


	8. Coincidence

Standard disclaimer

A/N: You guys had me worried there for a minute...I know that Sweet Arwen and Sweet Treats were keeping up with me, but until this morning I wasn't sure anyone else out there was awake! :) But now I have more reviews and I'm happy. Not that I wasn't happy before...I thought I was doing this for the fame and glory but I guess I'm really just doing it for fun. SO you have fun too, and don't forget to REVIEW! :) After this chapter, you may really, really want to....heh heh...(rubs hands together evilly)

**_Coincidence_**

Old town Pasadena was a lively little place, and extremely quiet that early in the morning. None of the shops had opened yet, and Vincent wasn't much of a window shopper anyway, so they soon grew bored and went back to the hotel. Victoria did not fail to notice that there was a church tower just a few blocks over.

She had told Vincent once that she was a God-fearing woman. Was that true? Had she changed so much in a matter of days? A blush crept up her cheeks when she thought about the previous night...the things Vincent had done to her...the things she'd asked him to do...she looked away, down at her feet. She didn't know what to think of herself. Worse yet, she didn't really know what Vincent thought of her, either.

Funny, though. She never got the feeling that he ever judged her.

They were just crossing the threshold of their room when there was a small, definitive beep coming from Vincent's jacket pocket. He looked mildly surprised, reached down, pulled out the source. It was a pager, small and sleek, glinting silver in the light. He flipped on one of the lamps, turning it over to find a number.

Victoria sat down on the bed, gazing out the window again. She felt very tired, suddenly, and wanted nothing more than to just go to sleep. But the adrenaline started to flow again when she heard him walk over to the small table with the telephone, pick it up and start to dial.

There was a long pause before she heard him say, "It's Vincent."

Silence. Vincent was listening intently to whoever was speaking. She heard him murmur things like, "yes...no...I'm still in L.A." It occurred to her that he was speaking with his employer. The blood started to drain out of her face as she realized she could be sitting in a room where a contract on someone's life was being taken out. Her fingers felt numb, she had been leaning on her wrists wrong. She sat up, shaking them out. She had a lot of nerve now, getting all weirded out.

"Okay," Vincent said, his voice very soft, and he gently replaced the receiver on its cradle. He had his back to her, and for several minutes, he didn't move.

She looked over her shoulder. "Everything okay?" she asked hesitantly.

His head rose up, but he didn't look around. She saw him take a deep breath, give himself a little shake, and then stand up. He walked right over to her, stood in front of her.

"I've just gotten a new job," he said in the sort of low-key tone that made her think something was really wrong and he was just attempting to soften the blow.

"And?"

"And it's on your patient, Marcus Shakespeare."

She stared up at him, jaw going slack. "Well, you didn't take it, did you?"

"I did." Still so calm. She felt her heartbeat accelerate as her anger rose, bringing the blood back to her face.

"Why?"

"Because it's a job."

She stood up, but he didn't give her an inch of space. The area between his body and the bed was just barely enough for her to stand in. "Vincent, you can't take that job, it's---"

"Victoria," he was meeting her eyes, "I told you I don't lie. I'm not lying to you now. If you're worried about your safety, you don't have to. I know you don't know how to reach him."

"That isn't the point," she snapped, taking a step closer to him, not caring about their proximity anymore. Her mind was whirling now, things spinning in her brain that she didn't want to let land, but were crashing into her reason with the speed of a meteorite. She found herself shaking her head, felt dizzy, almost lost her balance, but caught herself. Vincent reached out to hold her steady, her anger flooded what was left of her rationality, and she shoved him away, hard, making him take a step back.

"Don't you think that's too much of a coincidence?" she said, her voice a low growl.

"Yes, I do."

"And you don't believe in coincidences."

"No, I don't."

"So this isn't a coincidence." It snapped into her brain, like a child's set of building blocks, forming a hideous monster. "You...you knew that he was a patient of mine."

Vincent just looked at her.

"That night you came to me...you were injured, but the reason you stayed around so long wasn't because you were recuperating, was it? You hate L.A. You couldn't wait to get out."

"No, I couldn't."

"But you stayed. You stayed because you were waiting for something. The night that those boys came for me, did you got a call then, too?"

He frowned, lightly. "How would you know that?"

"Wild guess."

"Or maybe you're just paranoid."

"So you didn't get the call then...when did you?"

He took a breath. "The first morning, when you were asleep. Before I went out. They told me that they might need me, asked me to stay in L.A. for a few more days. Got me a flight out for later on today."

"So that's why you stayed. Not to protect me."

"No, I was protecting you. I knew you didn't know anything by then, but no one else knew that. I figured that keeping you close was probably a good way to keep track of things."

"What about Allen?" she cried, her throat threatening to close. "Why did he have to die?"

"I didn't kill him," Vincent said. "I suspect Claudia did."

She shook herself. This was _unbelievable_. "How do you know that?" she asked softly.

"I only figured it out this morning," Vincent said. "She probably went to Allen's house to see if you might be there. When she saw he was alone, she shot him. Then when we showed up, she followed us back, waited for an opportunity. She probably paid some poor desperate druggie to take that shotgun and shoot down our door, because by then she knew I was with you. She didn't want to take the chance that if we got into it, I would win. So she just came for information, tried to make it look like we're all on the same side."

"So Claudia is after Shakespeare, too? If she is, then you _are _on the same side."

Vincent shrugged. "_If_ she is. I still don't know what she has to do with all of this, exactly, but I'm certainly not going to rely on any assumptions. Not when it comes to her."

"So what now? You're taking that job, what happens next?"

"I go to my drop point, get my work-up, and we go see Mr. Shakespeare."

"We? I'm not going with you."

"I'm afraid you are, Victoria. I still need you."

"As a hostage," she said, and from the faintest flicker of guilt she saw in his dark eyes, she knew it was true. "Forget it, Vincent."

He reached out, one hand resting gently on her shoulder, pulling her close. He was smiling at her in his innocent, sweet way. "Come on, Victoria," he said, "we're still in this together. It's because of that man that your ex-husband is dead. Don't you want a little revenge?"

"You said revenge was a bad idea," she hissed.

"Did I?" His hand slid down her back, bringing her even closer. She stiffened.

"Yeah." She reached up, pushed away. "You are a soulless bastard, aren't you?"

The smile faded in a wink of his eye. "What?"

"You used me. All this time, _you used me_!" She pushed harder, getting more distance between them. When the back of her knees hit the bed she made her way around it, keeping her eye on Vincent, suddenly terrified and infuriated by him. "It was all a game for you, wasn't it?"

"I told you, Victoria," he said, his countenance slowly becoming more and more dangerous as he started to prowl after her, "I don't lie."

"No, what you do is worse. You totally manipulate. You get into people's heads, and use whatever you find there. That's your scheme, isn't it? Your trick. Make them empathize with you, make them think they're in it with you. That's how you play them."

Empowered by the slow, crumbling wall of his confidence, she continued, her voice getting louder, angrier by the second. She searched for the worst thing she could say, found the only weapon she had within her immediate reach.

"But _Max_ had you figured out, didn't he? He knew you were empty inside, that you really knew nothing about _anything_, it was all just an act. And now I see it, too. You're just a heartless, soulless _killer_. That's it. There's nothing else to you except your workups and your expensive suit." She turned away, disgusted.

But it wasn't enough. Maybe if she'd slapped him, like her fingers itched to do, it might have stopped what came next. His hand clamped down around her wrist, yanking her back, spinning her around until her back made contact with the wall, not painfully but sharp enough to startle her into raising up her head. Then his mouth descended on her, no mercy this time, his body pressing her against the rough fabric of the wallpaper, lips assaulting hers, his hands holding her in place so she couldn't get away, could barely struggle. At first the kiss was rough, intended only to assault and subdue her, and the second she felt his tongue touch hers, she wondered if he was going to shove it down her throat, just to make her gag. But just as quickly, the force was relented and he was gentle, caressing her mouth, finding the sensitive parts she had never known existed. He drew her tongue into his mouth, sucked on it, and she heard a low groan way in the back of his throat.

When he stopped, she found she couldn't breathe properly. She was panting; the pressure of him holding her against the wall was the only thing keeping her upright.

She blinked several times, trying to collect herself. He started on her neck and shoulders then, the roughness of his face driving her further away from reality. She struggled, but he held fast, knowing by now that she liked to struggle, it was part of her act, part of her secret. She focused on clearing her head, getting her mouth to work properly, and finally found the right words.

"You really missed your calling, Vincent. You should have been an actor."

He pulled away, roughly, still holding her in place, glaring into her eyes. "All this time, and you still don't know me at all," he spat.

"I know you," she returned, as if absorbing all his arrogance and confidence with their bodily contact. "There isn't anything _to_ know." She spat the words, almost literally spat in his face.

For a moment, he went totally blank, and then he exploded. His face came together, a horrible mask that only mirrored her own rage, and he yanked her away from the wall, practically throwing her onto the bed. She rolled, visions of all kinds of horrid things spinning through her head, and she landed on the other side, barely getting her feet under her.

"You think I put my neck out for anyone!" he howled at her, his voice high, screeching, tearing through her head like a pair of talons. "I. DO. MY. JOB."

"Your job, YOUR JOB, _shove your job up your ass_!" she screamed at him, feeding from the situation instead of being drained by it, which was probably more like her to do. But she was so hurt, so incredibly, deeply wounded by the fact that Vincent had played her that she no longer cared about being dead or alive.

He leapt up onto the bed, covering half the distance between them. She flung back into the corner, unwilling to let him get close. She reached for the lamp, ripped it from the wall and flung it at him. He caught it easily, then hurled it across the room, where it shattered against the far wall.

"_DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND ANYTHING_!" he screamed. "_HOW FUCKING STUPID CAN YOU BE?!?"_

She darted around the bed, and he lost his balance temporarily on the mattress in an effort to snatch after her, sliding before he could get onto the floor and chase after her.

She ran down the hallway, hit the stairs and jumped down half the flights, running the rest. She found a back exit and hurled her way through it. She was half-way across a back alley when a sound like thunder exploded beside her, sending a small spray of gravel up against the left side of her body.

She stopped, knowing that sound. Vincent's gun. She turned slowly, telling herself it didn't matter. He couldn't do anything to hurt her, anymore. If she was dead, so be it. Maybe God would let her apologize to Allen before sending her straight to hell.

He was walking up to her, his gun raised. When there was only about ten feet of space between them, he stopped. "You're not going anywhere, Victoria," he said, his voice much calmer than before, although not completely his old smooth self yet.

"I'm not going with you," she said.

"You are," he said. "You don't have a choice."

She looked up. It was daylight. The man had fired a gun in daylight in the middle of Pasadena's Old Town. Where was everybody? It wasn't like they were in South Central L.A., where gunfire was part of the ambiance. She blinked, her adrenaline starting to clear, her brain starting to unravel.

"Are you going to shoot me, Vincent?" she asked, her voice more level.

He stepped closer, almost close enough to reach out. "Victoria, don't make me do something I'll regret. I liked Daniel, too. And I shot him."

To illustrate his point, he cocked his gun. She nodded, slumping her shoulders. Suddenly the urge to die wasn't so strong. Maybe it had been the thought about hell. She looked up, saw the church tower. No, it wasn't her time to die yet.

"Come on," he said, finally getting the nerve to reach out and take her arm. He put his gun away. "We're going to the drop."

Numbly, she let him drag her down the alley and into a cab. She didn't pay attention to where they were going, didn't even bother to look at anything except her feet in the bottom of the cab.

"Victoria?" he said, a little bit later. When she didn't look up, he said it again. "Victoria?"

She looked up at him, her expression not changing.

He stared at her, expecting something. She could tell by the raise of his eyebrows.

"Am I your property now?" she said, her voice low, spiteful.

"My property?"

"Like Max," she bit out.

He stared at her a moment, letting her words sink in. Then, abruptly, he laughed, as if she'd made a joke. "No, Victoria, you aren't like Max," he said, adding a shake of his head and tossing her a coy smile.

"What's going to happen to me?"

He shrugged. "The day is still young. Could be anything. Over there, Albert," he said to the cabbie. She hadn't even noticed that he'd learned the cabbie's name. "On the right."

The driver pulled up, Vincent paid him, and he pulled Victoria out of the cab with him.

* * *

A/N: Sorry, I am particularly proud of that last chapter...it was a lot of fun to write Vincent totally flipping out and Victoria not being an utter wimp about it. Anyway, on to the replies:

Sweet Treats: Glad you were okay with the nakeness stuff. Chapter 9 is a little  
more icky, but you'll cope. And yes, I really am a teacher. Second graders. Yeah,  
I'm immature, I admit, that's why I get along with little kids so well. What, no comments  
about Claudia? I thought she was worthy of "what a bitch," or something  
like that. LOL

Sweet Arwen: Yes, the movie was just as good as before...only it's even better if you just  
get to watch Vincent the whole time. Heh heh. It inspired a little bit at the end of chapter  
9, which if you're good, and review, you'll get to read tomorrow. Heh.

CrazyCat1: Okay, I'll forgive you this time...yes, I teach little second graders. I love my  
job but the beginning of the year is very stressful and I only have until Monday to enjoy  
the rest of my summer and get this fanfic done. SIGH I could write during the school year but  
once I get started doing all my teacher-stuff I know I won't have the energy, and if I do, it had  
better be good writing or I'm going to be really mad at myself. Yeah, Claudia is like Victoria's  
total opposite, but she's supposed to be that way. Don't worry, you havent' seen the last of her...  
not for a LONG time.

Chips Ahoy: Every time I see your screen name I crave cookies. I DON"T NEED COOKIES! OH well, guess  
that never stopped me before. Anyhoo, see, cliffhanger solved? YEs, I got it. Heh. That's what a friend  
of mine always says when someone makes a silly joke that's actually funny. It deserves a "heh." So there's  
yours. :) SO I guess I'll hear from you again after another three chapters? :) lol jk

Warm MIttens: WHere did you go, girl? I didn't traumatize you too much, did I? Get back on the  
review board or email me and let me know what you think of these last two chapters, K?

Same to you, PAR! :)

Okay, gotta go solve the plot snag in chapter 11. I hit a big bump when I was writing last night. I made  
the mistake of trying to write too much after seeing the movie and I totally ran out of steam. I hit the  
big conflict-resolution part of the plot and then...NOTHING. So I think I've got it figured out now. I'll let  
you judge. Later, all!


	9. Ungrateful

_**Standard Disclaimer**_

A/N: Well, lots of great buzz about the last chapter...this chapter is a bit more low key, but I really enjoyed writing it as well. I hope you like it.

_**Ungrateful**_

She hadn't been paying attention to anything during the ride there, and noticed, with a little jolt of surprise, that they were back in downtown L.A., on Hill Street, not too far away from the Coliseum. His hand went from its pincher-like grip on her forearm to a more relaxed drip on her wrist, and then his hand went into hers, casually, like a high school couple walking through the hallways. She was tempted to try and pull her hand away, but knew that wouldn't succeed in anything other than annoying him, and she'd seen enough of his anger for one day. His grip only tightened whenever she went too slack, or moved too far away, giving the feeling that her hand was going to slip out. It was clearly a gentle warning - very gentle, considering he'd shot at her not more than a half hour ago. _Stay close_.

They went into Union Station, which was still used as an MTA station and a regular train station. There were some lockers tucked away into one of the corners, probably mostly used by homeless people and the occasional drifter. He went straight to one of the lockers and opened it up with an easy spin of the dial.

Victoria watched with a detached disinterest. She didn't care how in the hell he got his information, she didn't even care where they were going next. She was dead weight now. She even let her gaze drift across the station, toward the places where people sat. It was almost noon, there was lots of activity, families hugging each other, saying goodbye before someone got on a train, ordinary business people running for the Metro rail, the workers standing around enjoying a few moments of chatter, trying to kill the time before they went on break.

A man walked through the station. He was older, early fifties at least, thin brown hair, very round about the middle. He was carrying something in one of his hands. He had large, ape-like hands. At first she thought it was a ball of yellow fluff, some kind of toy, maybe a doll, or something he'd bought for his little girl. But there was no girl with him, and he was just walking through. He was saying something, something she couldn't hear over the din.

Vincent grabbed a thin brown leather satchel from the locker, pushed it shut, and started to walk. It pulled her closer to the man carrying the yellow fluff, and she realized that it was a dog. She saw four tiny little paws waving through the air, saw the ears flop up. She squinted, wondering what kind of dog could possibly be that small, could fit into a man's hand, even a hand as big as his.

They passed very close. A few women had stopped and were petting the animal. They were asking questions. She heard the man say, "He's for sale!" and her feet stopped. Vincent tugged her hand. She strained her eyes harder, determined to get a good look at the tiny little puppy, to hear if what she suspected was correct.

The man turned around, met her eyes. He held the puppy up for her to see, noticing her interest. "He needs a good home!" the man said, in the slick way street-sellers had, playing on sympathies. Someone beside him asked how much the dog was, and he said something that Victoria didn't catch, there was too much other noise, Vincent was saying her name, trying to get her to move without yanking her.

The puppy was peering out over the rim of the man's fingers, his little chin resting there. His eyes were two shining balls of coal, and he looked so sad, so helpless, so in need, that she felt herself moving toward him.

She knew what that felt like. Being trapped, being dragged around for the world to see, not having any choice in where you went or who you went with. Then, to her utter surprise, Vincent let go of her hand and stepped up beside her. 

"How much?" he asked, as if he didn't believe what he'd heard.

"Twelve hundred," the man said, catching Vincent's voice clearly, as it carried well over the crowd without being obtrusive. "He's a purebred."

"Twelve hundred?" Vincent said, incredulous. The other people were backing away, shaking their heads, either cooing over the puppy in sympathy, or shocked at the high price.

"Dog like that would go for five hundred in a pet store," Vincent continued.

The man shrugged. "I seen 'em go for fifteen hundred."

"Well, how about this one goes for seven hundred? What do you say?"

The man was slightly offended at the price, but didn't walk away. "A thousand."

"Eight hundred."

"Eight fifty," the man said. "Cash."

Vincent reached into his pocket, pulled out eight hundreds and a fifty, and handed it to the man. The man handed him the puppy. "If he's got worms," Vincent said, his hands just a little smaller, and he needed both of them to hold the miniature dog, "I'm going to find out where you live."

"No worms, man, he's clean. We just can't afford to keep him."

Victoria wondered how a man could get his hands on such an expensive dog if he couldn't keep him, but her thoughts were abruptly silenced when Vincent turned around and handed the puppy to her. It snuggled into her arm clumsily from all the handling, but she quickly righted it, brought it up to her shoulder, where it's soft nose, icy cold, sniffed her neck. She kissed its little head, her heart warming.

"Come on, let's keep moving," Vincent said gently, taking her free hand and continuing their walk out of Union Station. "We were going to take the Metro, but they don't like it when you bring dogs on, so we'll have to catch a cab again."

* * *

The puppy was very young. Victoria wondered if it was even old enough to be taken away from its mother. But the shock from being shuffled through public seemed to wear off rather quickly, and in the back seat of the cab, he began to squirm around on her lap, sniff her fingers, investigate the folds of her shirt that hung down over her stomach with his nose.

"You going to name him?" Vincent asked.

Victoria closed both her hands over the dog, pulling its face up so she could look at it. "Sure," she murmured. "I just don't know what."

"You'll think of something."

"How about Max?" She didn't dare turn to see his face when she said it, knowing it wasn't going to be pretty. But he didn't say anything in reply.

When she realized they were going back to Pasadena, she felt a slight thrill of alarm.

"Why are we going back?" she asked.

"Why not? We have a room there."

"But won't...won't there be a problem?"

"They won't connect us to what happened in the alley," he said, his voice a bit lower. "Don't worry about it."

But she did worry about it. He was right, but she worried anyway. When they reached the room, she raided the mini bar, searching for something she might be able to feed the puppy. The best she could come up with was some crackers and a bottle of milk. It seemed to work.

Vincent made himself busy with his satchel, and she didn't bother to look. She just didn't care. The dog was a distraction, she knew, and it was successful. To hell with it, she thought. He was going to do whatever, no matter what she said or did. The fight from earlier had gone out of her. All she worried about at the moment was taking care of Max.

She wasn't going to tell Vincent that she'd named the dog that, but it stuck in her head, and she went with it.

"Are you even going to say thank you?" he said, and she realized he had somehow crossed the room and was standing over her, watching her fuss over her new pet. She gave him a quick, cold glance, and went back to stroking the soft golden fur.

"Thank you," she said tightly.

He made some kind of disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "I don't get you, you know? I save your life, I protect you from people with far less honorable intentions...I won't even go into what I did for you last night, but I did it, and there aren't many men willing to take that kind of direction. I even bought you a dog!" She heard the slap of his hands against his legs, and looked up again, knowing she had to see his frustration, that if she didn't, it would only intensify it.

"You're ungrateful, you know," he said, his voice low as he turned away toward the window.

She straightened. "Why did you sleep with me?"

Abruptly, he turned back. "What?"

"Why. Did you sleep. With---"

"I heard you," he snapped, irritated.

She moistened her lips with her tongue. "Well?"

"Why do people say that? _Sleep with me_. We didn't sleep." His eyes flickered wickedly. "Would you like a recap of what we _did_ do?"

She balled her hands into fists, clenched tightly on her thighs. "Answer the question," she ground out through gritted teeth.

He approached her, slowly, non-threateningly. "Why are you asking me that?"

"I just want to know how much of this little adventure was planned and what you had to improvise. I want to know if it was just plain old hormones that made you have sex with me, or if it was some other ulterior motive."

His eyes widened in a way that seemed almost innocently surprised. "Victoria...you don't get around much, do you?"

"And I supposed you do."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Basic bodily needs, 101. Food, clothing, shelter, sex. You can go without any one of them for a time, but eventually, things have to be taken care of."

She snorted. "And I suppose I took care of it."

"Well, yes, if you want to reduce it to that. But you haven't slept around much, apparently, if you think what we did last night was a standard one-night-stand."

She was starting to feel very uncomfortable. She picked Max up off the floor and cuddled him against her chest. "Enough," she breathed.

"No, you asked, and I'm going to tell you." He sat down on the bed across from her again, just like before. A smile curled the corner of his mouth, knowingly. "You want to know if last night was special."

"Enough!" she said, more loudly, and Max let out a little yip in her arms.

Vincent's eyes traveled down toward the dog. He reached out and gently took it from her, holding it with one hand and stroking it with the other. "You know, normally, I don't get involved with people. Women, I mean. I haven't had anything like a girlfriend for most of my adult life. Claudia was probably it." He was talking easily now, as if he were sharing secrets with a trusted friend, instead of a very irritated hostage. "But, eventually, things can get distracting, and I don't like to be distracted."

"Distracted?" she echoed, in spite of herself.

He shrugged, a bit uncomfortable. "Every man in the world masturbates, Victoria. But it isn't the same. Sometimes you need a woman. You go find one. It's not hard."

She blinked slowly, shocked, looked away out the window, hoping to heaven he would shut up soon.

"But no, what happened wasn't a standard for me. I haven't had a night like that in...forever."

She shut her eyes, wishing he would just disappear...that she would wake up and all these last days would just turn out to be a horrible nightmare. "Please stop," she whispered, the humiliation starting to set her cheeks on fire.

"But you asked. You asked why I slept with you. You want an answer?"

She opened her eyes, looked at him, hoping for once he would read her mind and all the vicious, horrible things inside it that she thought of him. Most of all, she hoped he would hear the "NO!" screaming through her head.

"Because I wanted to." He half-shrugged again. It seemed to be a tick with him. He looked away, at some invisible spot on the lower part of the couch. And instantly she knew, she knew he wanted to say something, wanting to say it desperately, but just couldn't, because she didn't know how. So he didn't. He just let it lie.

And those horrible, vicious things melted like cobwebs.

She reached out, took the dog back. He let her, his mind somewhere else. She went back to feeding the puppy milk and crackers, keeping one eye on Vincent as he eventually went back to whatever he'd been working on.

So maybe she didn't hate him anymore. But she still didn't trust him, either.

* * *

Finding a place to keep Max -- she still didn't tell him the name, so he just called it "the dog" - turned out to be rather difficult. The best thing to do would have been to put some newspaper down inside a cardboard box, but as they had neither, Victoria suggested they put a towel in the bathtub and leave him there for the night.

Problem was, night was at least seven or eight hours away.

Vincent ordered room service, and Victoria made sure to be in the bathroom with the dog, making sure he stayed quiet, when the order arrived. The waiter was probably a little suspicious when he brought two cheeseburgers and one plain hamburger to a room containing only two people, but he didn't say anything. Victoria gave the puppy very small bits of meat, knowing it might be too young yet for it, and wound up only using a quarter of the burger - Vincent finished the rest, his appetite at a record that day. The puppy seemed to prefer milk anyway.

The bathtub worked like a charm. If the puppy peed, it went down the drain, and all they had to do was run some water after it and then wipe the tub again. But when Victoria went to lie down - on the couch, in spite of Vincent's insistence that she take the bed - he began to whine in lonliness.

Victoria, exhausted from the exertions of the morning, fell asleep rather hard. Vincent had to watch the puppy, and she was glad to find it was still alive when she woke up. Max even seemed to like him, the way he playfully tugged at the sleeve of his gray pants with his puppy teeth. Vincent seemed mildly amused by this for a while.

Victoria changed her clothes. The ones she'd put on the morning before all this had happened were starting to suffer from repeated wearings in the smell department. The only other thing she had was the dress Vincent had bought her, so she put it on. She felt strange, though, as she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. Too much skin was showing, now. How odd that she should feel uncomfortable showing Vincent too much of her skin after all that had happened. But the thought, the nagging feeling that it had all been an act, a game, wouldn't leave her alone. She shut off the light before she stepped out of the bathroom, covering herself in the shadows as she came back out into the room.

Vincent was sitting on the bed, his back to her, going over something from that little brown satchel again. It seemed like some kind of laptop, only much more compact. He was reading - she could see the shifting in his eyes. Feeling rather confident that he was absorbed, she went to the window. The curtains were pulled open just a little, enough to let the sunset through. Their room faced west, and she could see the horizon, and the clouds that were turning a deep pink blush.

There were pretty sunsets in California.

She found herself reaching toward the window, her palms pressing against the glass. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against it as well, relishing the coolness. The thought that if the glass should suddenly break, she would fall to her death, didn't bother her. It always had before. She sighed, frosting up the thick pane, and doodled a face with a straight line for a mouth in the fog.

She felt Vincent's hands on her hips, drawing her back. She didn't have a lot of room to move, so resisting him didn't seem like much of an option. Besides, he was gentle, not obtrusive. His thumbs moved against the small of her back, massaging the muscles there.

"Reflective of your mood?" he asked, his voice low behind her ear. She rubbed out the face with her thumb, didn't answer.

"You still angry at me?"

She didn't want to say no, but didn't dare say yes. Then, his breath, which was so warm against her neck, was followed by the touch of his lips.

Victoria felt a terrible rush of blood to where he touched her. Slowly, he moved upward, his lips half caressing, half-kissing her. The roughness of his cheek brushed hard against the crook of her shoulder. She shivered, ashamed of how quickly he'd seemed to figure her out.

She tried to tell herself that she was not a mindless walking bag of hormones, that she couldn't be controlled by someone who happened to know exactly how to touch her. She wanted to press her head down, push him away, but it got worse and he moved to the back of her neck from the side, to the top of her spine, his fingers lifting up and threading through her hair in the process.

"More games," she heard herself whisper.

He stopped. It was a simple stop, just needing him to life his lips a single inch from her skin. She folded her arms, swallowing hard. Her facial muscles were starting to scrunch on her and she felt her throat tighten. Why did all of this hurt so much?

"I'm not playing games with you, Victoria." His lips came close again, this time against the skin on the back of her jaw. He wrapped his arms around hers, bringing her even closer against his chest. He did not press her backside against him, though, and that was not lost on her. One arm lowered to her waist, pinioning her firmly in place.

"Why are you doing this, Vincent?" she managed through the chaos that was her mind.

He hesitated. "You really don't know?"

"No. I don't." She paused, swallowed again, gathered her strength. It was hard to think, being so close to him, but she was going to do it. "Why me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Of all the places you could have come, why did you ever come to me?"

She felt his smile. "You were good." He paused. "I'll never forget the day I met you. You remember that?"

She frowned. "You mean when you had me at gunpoint?"

"Yeah, but you weren't scared. Every other woman would have screamed bloody murder. You just calmly followed directions. You were even worried enough to bandage my wounds."

"I was trying to stay alive," she said tightly.

He chuckled - it vibrated through her. "Then when I showed up at your office, you didn't even blink. You weren't angry at me or anything. You just did you job. I always respected you for that."

"I'll bet you respect me," she said, jiggling her arms a little, showing him how tightly he was holding her. Still, he didn't give.

"I'm growing tired to reminding you that I don't lie." But his voice was still soft, patient.

"I know you don't lie. You also don't tell the truth when you don't have to."

"I want to tell you the truth, Victoria," he said, his smile fading. There was the tiniest touch of a frown in his voice. "But you won't believe me. And I can't tell you if you won't believe me."

"Why not?"

Stupid question. He stared over her shoulder, out the window, at the darkening sky. He let out a small sigh and then rested his head on her shoulder, his cheek pressed up against his. God, she loved the feel of his beard just too damn much.

"I've never told it to anyone before. I won't risk it." He bent down, kissed her shoulder one final time, and let her go. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To do the job," he said. He gave her a very sharp look as she turned around. "And I don't want to hear any arguments."

She bit her lip. She had no idea in hell what she was going to do, but she knew she had to do something.

* * *

A/N: So....yesterday, I finished this part of the story. And now I'm staring at a blank screen, waiting for the second part to come. I've got ideas, but it's going to be told in a different way than this one. This one is all Victoria's POV, but for the next story, that's going to change. Although I will admit that I'm a little afraid to go inside Vincent's head...anyway, here are some replies.

Okay, Byrony Cel, I forgive you. I know you all have lives, I'm just being silly and petulant...like all the great artists...yeah, right! Ha!

SweetArwen: Okay, then you owe me a double review when you get back! Of course by Saturday Midnight, the story might be over...I just finished the first part this morning and now, unless something for part II hits fast, it'll be the end! GASP!!!

firegoddess164: Glad you liked it as much as I liked writing it! Yeah, I was totally into Vincent going psycho, but Victoria held her own, go girl! I figured it was a matter of time. There may be more of that in part 2...if there IS a part 2...Well, to reassure you, Vincent wouldn't shoot Victoria. He shot AT her, but he didn't hit her on purpose. Even a sociopath like Vincent has his limits!

cerebralgoddess: Welcome to the mix! I hope you've enjoyed yourself here in our little corner of insanity. Yes, they should have a Collateral section up, I know someone out there is parading for it. We shall see, shan't we?

I know there are a few more of you, but I'll have to hit you at the end of the next chapter. In the meantime, thanks for reading, and don't forget to review!


	10. Hostage

_**Standard Disclaimer**_

A/N: What's this? Updating early? WEll, the life that I don't have is suddenly about to get really full, so I'm racing the clock. That doesn't excuse everyone from reviewing EVERY CHAPTER, though. And you know who you are. ;)

_**Hostage**_

"What are we going to do with...him?" Victoria asked as Vincent picked up his satchel. She held the puppy in her arms.

Vincent looked at it, at her, and then toward the bathroom. "We could always put it in there. Put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door."

Victoria frowned. She did not like that idea.

"You want to take him with us?" Vincent asked.

"No," she said quickly.

"Then it's the bathroom. Go on, he'll survive. It won't be that long."

Victoria went and put Max in the bathtub. Vincent had the hotel room door open and was halfway out into the hallway, waiting for her. She picked up her pace at the impatient flick of his fingers in her direction, stepped out into the hallway.

"We going to get another cab?" she asked.

He gave her a little smirk. "There's an MTA station just a little ways away. We're going to take it."

She frowned. "The metro rail? Why not just get a cab?"

"I'm a little sentimental about the metro rail," he said, putting his arm lightly across her back, his hand on her opposite shoulder.

They stepped into an open elevator. "Why?" she asked.

His smile didn't fade. She could have sworn he was enjoying himself. "Because it brought me to you." The elevator doors slid shut.

"What do you mean?"

Vincent patted the place on his chest where she had pulled out that bullet. "That's where this happened. The blue line, into Long Beach. It came all the way back to the other end, that's where I got off. I remembered it wasn't too far of a walk to your office from there. If it had been any other line, I wouldn't have reached you in time."

Victoria stared at him. It had never occurred to her that he'd ever thought of her, during that ordeal he'd told her about. But, her rational voice intoned, it was strictly in a professional way. Although if Vincent truly thought of her in a professional way, her impulsive voice argued, he would never have done...what he'd done. It just didn't make sense. And it certainly couldn't be any good for business.

"Come on, Victoria," he said, taking her arm. She blinked and realized that the elevator had stopped and opened into the lobby and he was waiting for her to move. They exited the hotel and it was a short, few-block walk to the MTA station. He bought two round trip tickets from the booth at three dollars each, and they boarded the train.

It wasn't the blue line, but the gold one that went back to Union Station. They got on the Red line, which took them up to North Hollywood. From there, Vincent grabbed a cab, and it was a solid fifteen minute drive through some very thick, windy neighborhoods before they came to the thick iron gates of an exclusive neighborhood.

"That's good enough," Vincent told the driver. The man pulled up along the curb and they got out. Victoria took in the huge black iron gates, beautiful guilded, decorated with heavy ivy that intertwined with pale purple flowers.

"This way," Vincent said as the cab pulled away. He indicated another direction, one she didn't expect.

"Where are we going?" she whispered.

"I already told you." He took her hand again, just like he had before, in Union Station. "Now let's go."

How they managed to creep through that neighborhood was beyond her. It was guarded, with security patrolling the streets, up and down, occasionally flicking their heavy flashlights into the foliage. But Vincent seemed to know exactly where he was going. Victoria guessed that all of this had been laid out for him in his work-ups. Other people did all the work, and he just did the killing. Maybe she was being too harsh on him - he was just the last step in a long process.

She shoved those thoughts out of her mind. A house came into view. She wished she could see it in its entirety, but it was too dark, and the place was covered by various kinds of bushes and plants - a protection from the street. What she could see, though, was deep gray stone and black trim, and various wings of the house.

They approached a back door, with no light. Vincent reached into his pocket, pulled something out. He had to let go of her hand, but instead of freeing her, he linked his arm through hers, freeing up both of his hands. He silently picked the lock, and as the door creeped open, he reached into holster for his gun. He seized her hand as she gave a startled little noise, and glared at her bloody murder. She closed her mouth, let him pull her inside.

She shut her eyes when he stopped, listening. She wished she could stop breathing...it occurred to her that he could have left her behind, in the hotel room. He could have tied her up to the toilet with an electrical cord. It would certainly have been easier for him, rather than dragging her behind him like dead weight. But no, she thought as she opened her eyes. There was a reason she was here. She was important somehow, although she had no idea why. So as she felt Vincent's grip slack, just a little, as he leaned into a room which appeared to be a dining room of sorts, and there was a series of noises coming from the ceiling, revealing where the people of the house were, she seized her chance.

She yanked her hand away and ran for the nearest set of stairs. Vincent jerked around, watching her go, raised his gun, silencer in place.

But he didn't fire.

She made it up the stairs and down the hall. She was too loud, she knew she was too loud, but it was too late. A door flew open and there was someone there, a woman with long hair that she had originally thought was golden blonde.

It was actually white.

"Well, hello there," Claudia said.

Claudia ducked her head out into the hallway, then pulled the door shut. "I take it Vincent is with you?" she asked, turning on Victoria, who was trapped in the small, miniaturized bedroom, no immediate way out.

"Ye...yes.." Victoria breathed.

Claudia pressed against the door. "Fuck," she muttered. She pulled out a radio in her pocket and then the house around her came alive.

Various guards could be heard running through hallways. Claudia shouted various orders, obviously the one in charge. Victoria slowly sat down on the bed.

"So you are working for Marcus Shakespeare," she breathed.

Claudia looked at her. Her cold eyes twinkled with merriment. "What, you thought I was one of the bad guys?"

"Vincent did, yeah."

"Well, talk about pots and kettles," the other woman snorted. She gave Victoria what was almost a compassionate smile. "Poor kid, you've probably been through a lot," she sighed. "Mr. Shakespeare is pretty worried about you. I'm sure he'd love to see that you're alive and well. Come with me."

Victoria didn't get up. Claudia raised a delicately drawn eyebrow-line at her.

"Is there a problem?"

"Who killed Allen?" Victoria asked.

"Your ex-husband?"

"Vincent and I found him shot dead, in our house." She swallowed hard, suddenly realizing what Claudia had just said. "How did you know he was my ex-husband?"

"You think Mr. Shakespeare doesn't know everything about his employers?" Claudia returned. "Even you?"

Victoria stiffened. She'd been around Vincent too long. She was starting to pick up some of his uncanny abilities. She opened her mouth, and heard herself ask, again, more loudly, "How did you know he was my ex-husband, Claudia?"

Claudia looked at her, then opened the door behind her. "Let's go see Mr. Shakespeare, Victoria."

Victoria stood up, waited until she was in the hallway in front of Claudia, and then, in a desperate measure, brought her elbow up and smashed the other woman right in the nose. She heard the woman slump against the wall, cussing and swearing in languages she knew weren't English as she ran away.

* * *

There were things that Victoria did not see.

She did not see that Vincent couldn't shoot at her. She didn't see that he didn't follow. She didn't see that he was following a particular path through the house, and knew exactly where Marcus Shakespeare's bedroom was located, where the man was sitting up, watching the evening news.

She did not know that Vincent had known this all along, that he'd been given very specific instructions that few people other than him could have followed so quickly, so accurately. He was exactly on his time clock, and he was going to finish the job, Victoria or no. He'd find her eventually, it wouldn't be hard, the stupid girl made too much damn noise anyway.

Marcus sat on his bed, his leg propped up. He was not as healthy as he appeared, and the wounds had gotten infected, and his people were doing their best to clean him up, in lieu of a real doctor. Bringing Victoria into his service had been a risk well worth taking, as she was quite good and had probably kept him alive where others would have failed. But without her, he was stuck to old fashioned methods - lots of hydrogen peroxide and antibiotic ointments. It seemed to be working so far, but it hurt to move around too much.

He was not alone. There was a guard in his room, a very good marksman by the name of Blue Tony, called so because he had only one eye, and the other was covered by a thick lens of blue. It also allowed Marcus some degree of privacy, as Blue Tony's blind eye was to him, the other one watching the room. Marcus even felt comfortable enough to pick his nose on occasion.

There was no sound before Vincent came into the room. Blue Tony managed to get off one single shot, which grazed over Vincent's shoulder and exploded an expensive crystal lamp behind him. Vincent unloaded his signature three shots into Blue Tony - two in the sternum, one in the head. Blue Tony fell back into his chair, in nearly the exact same position he'd started in.

Marcus Shakespeare let out a small yelp as Vincent turned to him. But suddenly there was something in the way. A streak of blue and gray, topped with long brown-black hair.

Vincent blinked. Victoria was standing directly in his line of fire, her arms flung wide.

"STOP!" she screamed. "Don't!"

"Victoria," Vincent breathed, after thoroughly taking in the situation, "get out of my way."

"I won't," Victoria said, "I won't let you kill him."

"Don't you care that he's the reason Allen is dead?" Vincent barked.

Victoria hesitated, turned and looked at her patient over her shoulder. He looked a bit different than she'd last seen him, less pale but older somehow, the stress of his present situation aging him years before their eyes.

He was a big man, probably very strong in his youth, and possibly still considerably so for his age. Dark hair, graying, wide build. A squarish face that had always greeted Victoria with warmth. He'd always been so kind to her, so respectful, bestowing personal courtesies on her like free meals in his elegant dining room, rides back and forth to his home, even with a comfortable form of concealment from its location.

He still looked that way to her now, which was why she hesitated to get out of Vincent's way. But she looked away for too long, and he attempted to swipe her out of the way, reaching forward with one arm while keeping his gun trained on Shakespeare. She danced out of his grasp, almost climbing up onto the bed.

There was a terrible ruckus in the hallway. Vincent reached behind with his foot and shoved the door shut, but a black gloved hand blocked his way. Claudia stood there, her nose bleeding a steady trail down her chin and neck, her gun out and aimed right at Vincent's head.

"Hello again," she said, her voice sounding nasally. "Isn't this pretty?"

Vincent sighed, lowered his gun. Claudia was sloppy for only a moment as she reached to take it from him. It was all that Vincent needed.

Victoria had seen a lot of martial arts movies, action movies, movies where men did incredible things with their bodies that didn't seem possible. Watching it in real life, however, was a completely different experience. Vincent moved like liquid, the only sounds being the crack of Claudia's arm as he broke it and the snap of her knee as he shoved it the wrong way. She hit the floor, but to her credit, she hardly made a sound. Her gun was also now in his possession.

"Clumsy," Vincent admonished her. "Very clumsy. Surprised you're still around, making mistakes like that."

Claudia just smiled up at him, and straightened out her knee. It wasn't a pretty sound. She held her arm close and looked up at him, as if she knew something he didn't.

More pounding coming from behind them. Vincent pushed a chest of drawers over the door to keep whoever else was coming in, out.

"So she is working for you," Vincent said, directing his words to Marcus Shakespeare. "I think you might have been ripped off."

Marcus dragged himself to his feet, unwilling, apparently, to face this situation half lying down. "What do you want, assassin?" he growled.

"What do you think I want?" Vincent asked. "To complete the contract. It's my job." His blue-green eyes narrowed on Victoria, who was still blocking him. "Get out of the way, Vic."

"No," she said calmly, the adrenaline having a very strange affect on her. Even seeing what Vincent was capable of, she didn't believe he'd kill her. "You want to shoot him, you'll have to shoot me first."

His eyes narrowed, and he aimed. For a second, for only a second, Victoria saw, in his eyes, that he was going to do it. He was going to kill her. A job was a job. A life was nothing, not even hers. And then, in the same flicker, it was gone.

He couldn't. For probably the first time in his entire career, he couldn't.

Then Claudia started to laugh.

"That is so PATHETIC!" she howled. "Vincent, you pussy, you-"

Victoria reached out and slapped the woman across the face, hitting her nose, causing the words to be drowned out in a gargle of blood. Claudia shot bloody murder at her with her eyes.

"I don't believe you, Victoria," Vincent whispered.

Victoria looked up at him. "What, she doesn't annoy the piss out of you, too?"

Vincent shook his head. "That man," he said, gesturing with his gun, "that man is the reason your husband is dead."

"He didn't kill Allen," she said.

"Yes, but Claudia did. Didn't you, Claudia?"

Victoria looked back down at the woman. Claudia took her hand away from her blood-filled mouth. "I don't know---"

"Claudia," came Shakespeare's booming voice. "Did you?"

Claudia looked up at her boss, unrepentant. "He was uncooperative," she said. "And then he tried to call the police. What the hell else was I supposed to do?"

Victoria kicked her, in the gut, hard. "You bitch!"

Marcus stepped even closer, close enough so that Vincent couldn't get a clear shot at him without clipping Victoria. In fact, he moved himself a little bit behind her. "That wasn't part of my instructions, Claudia."

Claudia glared up at the man, but kept her mouth shut.

"Shoot her, Vincent!" Victoria screeched.

Vincent looked at her in shock. "You won't let me kill the criminal mastermind, but you want me to kill his flunky? Your sense of right and wrong certainly is subjective."

Marcus placed a large hand on Victoria's shoulder. "Listen, my dear, I am so sorry all this has happened."

She shook him off. "Save it."

Marcus looked from her to Vincent, realized she was moving away. Any minute now, Vincent could put his gun back on him, and he was unarmed. He stared to panic.

"Dr. Potter," he said, his voice pleading, "I was genuinely concerned for your safety. I did not know that Claudia would exceed my orders."

"You're concerned enough for my safety to send a psychopath to my ex-husband's house," Victoria ground out bitterly.

"You want me to shoot him _now_?" Vincent asked. Marcus jumped.

"I don't want you to shoot anybody, Vincent."

Vincent took a deep breath. "Well, that really is too bad, because I do have to." He aimed his gun at Marcus again, with Victoria out of the way. She tried to dart into his path again but he caught her by the arm and held her fast.

"No, Vincent, don't!"

"Why not?" Vincent demanded, his eyes locked on Shakespeare. "He's just a criminal, just one of a million other criminals...no one will miss him...some people will probably live longer after he's dead."

He cocked the gun. He was ready to fire. There were gunshots in the hallway, the small armed force that was protecting the Shakespeare grounds had all collected at the bedroom door and were pounding to get in, willing to destroy the entire wall if they had to.

Time was almost up.

* * *

A/N: Evil cliffhangers! Dont' worry, the next (and last) chapter is on the way. In the meantime...

**Par**: Heh...yeah, chapter 8 was fun...hopefully you liked ch. 9, too. And this chapter...only one more to go before this phase of the story ends! Thank God, this morning I was hit with inspiration. And I just got back from seeing Collateral (#4!) so hopefully I'll be able to continue it.

**Sargonne**: Hey! Welcome back...and yes, it is going to get worse. A lot worse. But I'll let you judge. HOpefully the sequel will be even WORSE than that...lots more Claudia, and the inclusion of the other characters from the movie...Max, Annie, and especially Detective Fanning. I just can't believe that a member of the LAPD would go into a situation without wearing his Kevlar! Duh!

**Warm Mittens**: You were sick? That sucks. Yes, Claudia is a total bitch, and in the next story, she will be even WORSE!!! if you can imagine that. So, school shopping? I'm assuming you're in high school, then, but if I'm wrong you have the right to smack me. And no, you're right, right now, I do have no life...but that will all change this coming Tuesday as the school year beings and i have to go to work and teach all the little second graders again. SIGH it was fun while it lasted. BTW, loved, "Oh, my giddy god." I am so gonna use that sometime. P.S. Damn is spelled with a silent N, not a B. Heh. Sorry, had to be a teacher there for a moment. :)

Oh **Sweet Treats**...you been taking your meds lately? See, this is what happens when you don't! BTW, like the second line of the story was, "He had no soul." Or maybe it was the first line...anyhoo, no soul, equals soulless. And the name of the next story will be solace, pronounced almsot the same way! Solace means comfort, safety. If you think these two kids are getting off easy, you're on more crack than I thought! That puppy was also a real-life deal. ON Sunday I was walking around downtown and there was a guy just like the guy in the story selling that puppy. The poor little thing...and he wanted that much, too! I felt so sorry for that little puppy, so I gave him to Victoria. See, the secret to good writing is drawing from real life. Although, tell the truth, I never want to get involved with a sociopathic killer, even if he does look like Tom Cruise. orry, not my style. But Victoria can have all the fun she wants! LOL!

**firegoddess164: **That was funny about your cats! LOL...is one black and the other gray? Because that WOULD be perfect. No, sorry, this entire part is in Victoria's POV, but we'll get into Vincent's head a little next time. And there WILL BE a next time.

Okay, so...I know how much of a heart attack everybody had over the last cliffhanger, so I've posted this chapter early and I'll post the final chapter tomorrow morning. Which means that the next story will get uploaded hopefully on Saturday night. The minutes of my freedom are running out! I have to act fast! Aaaaahh! SO YOU BETTER REVIEW FAST!!!


	11. Disconnected

_**Standard Disclaimer**_

A/N: Ah, well...so this is the end of the first part. I've already started on the first chapter of the next part,but unless I get my butt in gear there won't be much else. And freedom's days are fast approaching completion! So, feedback is vital, let me know your answer to the question I've got posted after the chapter. Until then, enjoy! And if you think it sucks, let me know. I can work on it.

_**Disconnected**_

Marcus Shakespeare really had a magnificent bedroom. It was wide, with a huge, four-poster king-size bed in the middle, a huge walk-in closet on one side and a private bath on the other. On the wall facing outside was a huge set of glass patio doors that led out onto an impressive balcony. For safety reasons, there was usually a guard posted there, but for some reason, there wasn't one there that night. The doors, instead, were heavily barred, which meant that the only way through them was if they were broken, which would make a lot of noise. Not the kind of thing a potential intruder wanted to do.

"Vincent," Victoria whispered from beside him. "Please...please don't."

"Why not?" he asked one final time.

"Because...I don't want you to."

"Because," Marcus Shakespeare interrupted, "I can pay you triple whatever they're paying you, just to walk away."

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "I've been made that offer a dozen times before, Mr. Shakespeare. It's never worked yet."

"Four times. Or you name a price. You name a price and I will pay it."

Vincent chuckled. "With those boys ready to bust in here, I'm sure that they will give you the time to get that kind of cash before they blow both me and your doctor here to little bits."

"Claudia, give me your radio!" Marcus barked down at her. She scuffled through her pockets, her expression pure sullenness, and handed him her radio. He spoke into it, "Jefferson, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Stop. Whatever you're doing in the hallway, stop now."

There was a pause in the hallway, then the tapering off of all the various noises. Then, it stopped.

"Boss?"

"Go to the safe downstairs," Marcus continued. "Whatever is in there, bring it up here."

There was a confused bustle of static, and then, "Whatever you say."

Vincent laughed again. "This is ridiculous. There isn't anything to stop those boys from starting right back up again and-"

"My word is enough to stop them," Marcus snapped.

"Your word doesn't mean puppy shit," Vincent said. "You don't have any reason to live up to your bargain. I don't kill you, I'm dead myself."

"You're dead if you do kill me, Mr. Vincent," Marcus returned.

Vincent looked toward the patio doors. "You don't know me too well, Mr. Shakespeare."

"Marcus," came Victoria's voice, "he does have a point. Why do this? I mean, other than the obvious reason, to save your life...but we don't have any reason to trust you to keep your word."

Marcus stepped forward just a little, and Vincent steadied his gun. Marcus cast Vincent a quick glance, then looked straight at Victoria.

"Your husband's death," he said, "is my fault, Dr. Potter. For this, and for the many risks you've taken for me these past nights, I owe you a life. If you wish that life to be Vincent's, say the word."

She opened her mouth in astonishment.

"What are you saying?"

"He's saying," Vincent said, "he's serious because he feels he owes you. And he's going to pay you back by not killing me, even though he should."

"I realize that this situation doesn't please you, Mr. Vincent," Shakespeare said. "After all, you do have a reputation to uphold. But you don't need to worry. I am tired of this life. I am going to disappear, I promise you all that." He glared at Claudia. "My past associates have disappointed me, and I have no real reason to take these risks any longer."

There was a rap at the door. The radio in his hand crackled. "Sir? We have the money."

"Good." Marcus gestured to the door. "Who do you wish to get it?"

Vincent hesitated. He looked to Claudia. "Let her go," he said. "Make her use her broken arm."

Claudia looked to Marcus, who nodded. She pulled herself upright, and as if the arm were not broken at all, she went to the door, cracked it open, and accepted the large package of money handed to her. It was a brick of bills, two feet by two feet, wrapped in shrinkwrap.

"For emergencies," Marcus said.

"Like this one," Vincent said, looking at the money. He rubbed his chin. "I don't like this." He pointed at Claudia, who still stood by the door, holding the money. "Set it down and open it up. I want to see it."

Claudia obeyed...and pulled out from the midst of the smaller bricks of cash a hold-out pistol that she brought up and aimed right at Vincent.

Vincent reacted so quickly, Victoria wasn't even fully aware that he had crashed down on top of her until she heard the terrible sound of someone's throat rupturing. She looked up from underneath and saw that Marcus had been thrown back on the bed, and there was a small fountain of blood squirting up.

The jugular, the doctor inside her said. The artery was like an oil pump without a basin. She heard a terrible crashing noise, swore there was furniture flying in the room. The felt the hot spray on one cheek as Vincent pulled her up by her waist, her feet hardly touching the ground as he dragged her toward the patio doors, which had been blasted open by bullets from Vincent's gun. Then, she was outside, on her feet, Vincent was firing wildly behind them, then grabbed her hand and they were running.

What had happened was this:

Claudia shot at Vincent, who was just fast enough to throw Victoria down under him and duck the bullet. Unfortunately, Marcus was right behind him, and the movement sent the bullet right into his throat. He fell back, dead within seconds from blood loss. Claudia aimed again but Vincent was too fast. He opened fire, caught Claudia in the shoulder, and she reached behind her, throwing down the chest of drawers Vincent had pulled against the door. The chest nearly fell onto them, but Vincent caught it as Claudia pulled the door open, allowing other men through, although there were too many trying to come in too fast in a small space. Vincent didn't even blink - he used gravity to shift the weight of the chest so that it flew through the patio doors, then grabbed Victoria and half-carried her outside with him. Knowing he couldn't carry her the whole way, he set her down just long enough to turn and open fire, taking out a few of the guards in the process. Then he grabbed her and headed for the nearest ledge.

Below was the roof of one of the garages. He picked Victoria up, one arm around her back, the other around her knees, and jumped. The roof of the garage was sturdy enough, but the crack as they landed was unmistakable. He kicked down, finding the soft lining through the heavy supportive beams, and made a hole. He grabbed Victoria by her wrists and lowered her through, hearing the soft thud of her landing. He looked down. She had landed in the back seat of a convertible. He followed, aiming for the driver's seat.

Victoria picked herself up, dazed, her backside screaming bloody murder but otherwise unhurt. Vincent had landed on his feet in the driver's seat, but was climbing over the door, onto the concrete floor. He went to a rack on the far wall, his fingers gliding over several sets of keys. He glanced over his shoulder quickly at the car, then pulled the keys of the rack that held the large letters "BMW." He came back, and she scrambled into the front seat as he climbed in and started the engine.

"What about the door?" she asked.

"Duck," he said, reaching for her and pulling her head down, almost into his lap. He hunched his shoulders forward as they plowed through the wood and plastic, scaring the hell out of a few other guards who had started to close in on the garage in the chaos. Before she knew it, they were in the street, tearing down the winds at an incredible speed.

"They're going to follow!" Victoria said, raising her head up and watching behind her. The wind from their velocity whipped up her hair, sending it flying into her face, and she struggled to push it back, unsuccessful until she turned around again.

"Maybe," he said, taking a sharp turn. There was an exit straight ahead, a guard posted there. Vincent tore through it, not bothering to even slow down. Out onto the open street, he made a series of twists and turns until finally they hit a freeway exit.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Victoria asked, after they'd been on the road a good ten minutes without any more detours. She also noticed that they weren't being followed.

"I don't know," he said. "Where do you want to go?"

"We can't leave Max behind," she said, not thinking. Realizing she had spoken the dog's name out loud, she put her fingers to her lips.

He looked at her, pointedly. "You named the dog _Max_?" he asked. 

She shrugged. "It fit."

He sighed. "Great. Well, you're right, we can't leave him. I didn't spend eight hundred and fifty dollars for nothing."

More time on the freeway - Victoria caught the signs, they were on the 405, going east - and a few changes - to the 134, to the 210, back into Pasadena - and they were pulling out across the street from the Marriott. But Vincent didn't pull in - instead he pulled into a parking lot across the street, went way toward the back, where a security light was burned out. He got out of the car, and Victoria heard the sounds of metal scraping. She looked back, found him pulling off their license plate and shoving it into the trunk. Then he went to another car, pulled off its license plate, and put it onto the BMW.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a low voice.

"Shhhh," he said. "I'm working."

The license plate affixed, he came back to the car. He had been working with nothing more than a pocket knife, which he put back into his pocket. "Replacing the plates," he said in a low voice. "So they'll have a harder time tracking us."

She nodded. He took her back over to the Marriott, parked the car himself, not bothering with the valet parking, and turned the engine off.

They sat in silence for a moment. Victoria looked around her, wondering that she felt so awake, so alert. She had expected to feel that dream-like state, but no, it was all real. Too real.

Then, Vincent reached into the back seat. She heard the crinkle of shrinkwrap. He pulled the big bag of money with them into the front. Victoria's eyes widened.

"You took it?"

"Of course, I took it," he said. "You deserve something for your troubles."

She swallowed, hard. "I can't take that."

"Sure you can," he said, his eyes not meeting her. "After what you've been through, you're going to need it. Trust me."

But Victoria did not touch it. She got out of the car and headed for the elevator. She heard Vincent's foot steps behind her, glanced over her shoulder as she waited for the elevator to arrive, and noticed he had the money dangling from his fist at his side.

The elevator came. They went back to their room.

* * *

Max had been sleeping, curled up in the towel they'd left in the tub. When Victoria entered, he immediately raised up his head and greeted her with a tiny, happy bark. She picked him up, kissed his soft fur, and cradled him against her chest as she went back out into the hotel room.

Vincent had flung the money down onto the bed and pulled open the wrap. He flipped through the stacks of bills, looking at them closely.

"You know, I have to admit," he said, "I expected this to be fake, but it's real."

"How do you know?"

He held up a hundred. The large face showed clearly, and when he put it against the light, she could see the smaller face on the lower right side. Yes, it was real.

"Gotta love these new hundreds," Vincent said with a wry smile. "They are _very_ hard to counterfeit."

Victoria stared down at him, at the money. "How much is there?" she asked quietly.

"More than enough to set you back up again," Vincent said, pulling the rest of the money out of the bag. He pulled out his brown leather satchel and emptied it of the laptop, then started putting the bills inside. It was a tight fit, but he managed to get most of it in. "I'll take a little bit myself, for my troubles," he added, shoving some of the bills into his coat pocket.

"I'm not taking that," Victoria said again.

He looked up at her, his face tightening in frustration. Although, to his credit, he was being patient. "Why not?" he said.

"It's not mine," she replied.

"It is yours, Victoria," he said. "You deserve it."

"Maybe I do, but it doesn't make it mine." She pulled Max closer, stroking his little head, which had nestled into the crook of her neck. Which still tingled, if she thought about it, from where Vincent had been kissing her before.

He shook his head. "What, you want it to go into the dumpster? Where some crack-head can find it and go smoke out his life with it? Or worse, it just goes to the landfill, where no one gets any use from it? What do you think you're going to do, Victoria? Go back to your house and then to your office tomorrow morning and resume business as usual?"

She arched an eyebrow. "I don't know. Am I?"

"No," he said. "You think Shakespeare's people won't be looking for you? You think the police won't? You have to leave L.A., Vic. Go somewhere else, start up again. I know it's a raw deal, but trust me, you'll be happier for it. From what I've seen, you don't really have much to keep you here, anyway."

She considered his words, then softly said, "No, I guess I don't."

"Well," Vincent said, "I guess that's settled." He picked up the laptop, walked into the bathroom. She heard some loud, awful noises as he destroyed it in the bathtub. Her eyes wandered to the clock. It was midnight. She wished he hadn't used the bathtub - she suddenly really wanted a shower.

He came back out, looked at her, still standing there. She turned around, sat down gingerly on the bed. The satchel with the money in it was at the foot, untouched.

"So what now?" she breathed.

He looked at her, leaned against the door frame. "Now? Well...I have a plane to catch. I'll take the BMW, leave it at the airport. I don't think you want it hanging around here."

"So that's it?" she whispered. "You just leave?"

He paused. "Well, considering the circumstances, and how you've been acting for the last few days, I would think you'd want me the hell out of your life as quickly as possible."

She dared to look up at him. The thought that he was actually going to leave her - more than that, that he was going to leave her _alive_ - was suddenly too much. The conflicting emotions of devastation and gratitude rose up in her and choked off her ability to speak.

"Victoria?" he said, his voice sounding far away. No doubt her prolonged silence was unsettling to him. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you," she managed.

He stepped closer, then crouched down in front of her, their eyes meeting. He reached out, gently took one of her hands, pulled it closer to him. "Victoria?" he said, more tenderly this time.

"What?" she whispered.

"Do you _want_ me to leave?" The hesitation, the un-sureness in his eyes, it made him seem like a totally different person.

She almost smiled. "You hate L.A., remember?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Too sprawled out and disconnected. How many millions of people here, and none of them know each other?" He smiled. "Not for me."

"How many less, now that you've been here a few days?" she returned, lowering Max into her lap.

He shook his head. "Makes no difference, darling," he said softly. "Who notices?"

"I notice," she said, thinking of Allen. "It does make a lot of difference." She met his eyes, gripped his hand closer. "Vincent," she said, "why are you leaving me?"

He seemed stunned by the question. She'd grown to recognize his various degrees of mood, even though his face hardly changed much. A simple widening of his eyes, a twitch in his eyebrows, that was all. "Well, I really should go home-"

"No," she said, letting go of his hand. She put Max onto the bed beside her, leaned forward, staring him down as well as she could. "You let Max and Annie go before. Now you're letting me go. Why? Why are you leaving us alive? It's not exactly the smartest thing for a contract killer to do. Why are you doing it?"

He pulled back a little. "Why are you so concerned about why I'm letting you live? Most people would just be grateful."

"Because I can't get my head around it," she admitted. "I can't understand...why did all of this happen? I can't believe that you were using me the whole time. Or were you?" She drew a breath, leaned closer to him, pinning him with her eyes. "Just tell me the truth and I'll believe you."

"The truth," he breathed. "You'll _believe_ me?"

"I promise."

He stood up, pulled her up onto her feet in front of him. His hands were on her shoulders, as if holding her in place. He looked down, his eyes unfocused, away from her, as if he was struggling with the things inside him - against his reason, against his better judgment, against the years of bitter experience that railed at him to stop now, while he could.

"The night that I killed Daniel," he breathed, "that trumpet player...there was this waitress there. For some reason, she reminded me of you. I couldn't stop looking at her. Sure, I had to watch her, make sure she wasn't around too long, but there was something else. Something in her face." He flinched. "I've never told anyone this. I really felt bad about having to kill him. I really wanted Daniel to get that question right. But he didn't, and I had to do my job."

Victoria frowned, puzzled. "Vince---"she whispered, but he cut her off.

"Shh. Please, just listen. I told you I took the MTA back to you. Truth was, I didn't know if I was going to live or not. I wasn't sure you could fix me." He paused, there were muscles in his face that were twitching with the tension. There was one particular one in his upper lip, it gave his face such a sad appearance. She wanted to reach up and smooth it away.

He finished, "But I wanted to see you one more time before I died."

Her eyes widened, and she realized he was looking at her, looking into her, with those huge, dark eyes of his.

"Truth is, Victoria," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady, "I've never been able to stop thinking about you. Not since we first met. It's always the touch of your hands that I think of first - how you always are so sure, and yet so gentle." He smiled a little, bashful. Not believing he was saying these things. She could see the strain in his forehead, the way some of his veins pulsated slightly.

"Since we first met?" she managed.

He shrugged. "My job doesn't really afford me a love life. My life doesn't afford me a love life. Not that I would ever think you'd be...well..." he choked off, losing his confidence. His hands left her shoulders, spreading out slightly, and he shook his head, his eyes closing, and for a moment, Victoria was sure he was going to stop, just leave it there, only partly said.

"Go on, Vincent," she urged. "Please."

He opened his eyes. She had never really thought of him as a person to pity before that moment. He hid his pain so well, so deep inside of him. He never let it out, never let anyone see it. It was his only defense against the world he hated so much. Against rejection, against loss. But now, it shone brightly on the surface, and she realized now why his eyes had always seemed so empty before. His soul...the one she thought he didn't have...was lost in a sea of pain. Overwhelmed by it. His hands gingerly returned to her shoulders and she felt his grip tighten on her, as if afraid that she was going to just add to that pain, that now he had revealed it, he'd just left himself open for more of it. The thought was unbearable, for both of them.

She leaned forward, and kissed him.

At first, he jumped against the kiss, as it wasn't anything he'd probably experienced before. All the other times had been about seduction and lust, but this one - it was an invitation, a comfort, a sign of love.

"Tell me," she whispered against his cheek. "Say it."

"I...can't," he said against her cheek. This close, his eyes burned her. It was overwhelming. She couldn't do anything to help him, even if she told him she loved him back. It was so much, her reason told herself. She couldn't take this burden. It was too much.

"Victoria," he said, after a deep, withdrawing breath, "do you want to come with me?"

"Where?"

"Home. Where I live. Come and stay with me. As long as you want to, anyway. I know this last week has been...insane." He chuckled, relieving his own tension. "But it will be different. I promise."

She considered him. He'd given her so much...more than he'd taken away. And really, truth be told, this week had not been his fault. Not really.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Very," he replied.

What she was about to say...it defied everything within her. But she couldn't help it, it surged out of her, unwilling to be repressed. "Yes," she sighed, almost dizzy with her own headiness. "If you want me to. I want to go with you."

He smiled at her, that same smile she had seen before - that happy smile, the one that lacked his ego, lacked the bitterness and disdain it always had before. "Then let's go."

* * *

Max sat in the back seat, wrapped in a towel they had snatched from the hotel room. The brown satchel was tucked underneath the seat, in spite of Victoria's objections. Vincent promised her they could donate the money to some free clinic in Mexico, got knew there were enough of them that needed it.

In the front seat of the BMW, her hair wrapped in the hat and scarf Vincent had bought her from before, Victoria fiddled with the CD's she found in the small compartment between the seats.

"This one looks good," she said, holding it up. Vincent just shrugged.

"If it's not Jazz, I'm not really interested," he said. "But go ahead, if it'll make you happy." He tossed her a smile.

She slipped the CD in, pressed the button to make the tracks play randomly. The song started to play.

"Life, it's ever so strange

It's so full of change

Think that you're worked it out, then BANG

Right out of the blue

Something happens to you

To throw you off course, and then you...

Break down, yeah, you breakdown

Well, don't breakdown, listen to me,

because...

It's just a ride, it's just a ride,

No need to run, no need to hide

It'll take you round and round

Sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down

It's just a ride, it's just a ride

Don't be scared, don't hide your eyes,

It may feel so real inside,

But don't forget, it's just a ride.

Truth, we don't wanna hear

It's too much to take,

Don't like to feel out of control

So we make our plans, ten times a day,

And when they don't go our way, we...

Break down, yeah, we break down,

Well, don't break down, listen to me,

because...

It's just a ride, it's just a ride,

No need to run, no need to hide

It'll take you round and round

Sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down

It's just a ride, it's just a ride

Don't be scared, don't hide your eyes,

It may feel so real inside,

But don't forget, it's just a ride.

Slowly, oh so very slowly, except that

There's no getting off.

So live it, just gotta go with it,

Because this ride, it's never gonna stop.

Break down, don't you break down,

No need to break down, no need at all,

because...

It's just a ride, it's just a ride,

No need to run, no need to hide

It'll take you all around

Sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down

It's just a ride, it's just a ride

Don't be scared now, dry your eyes,

It may feel so real inside,

But don't forget, enjoy the ride."

Victoria smiled as they cruised down the 5 into San Diego. They would be in Mexico by dawn. She sat back to just enjoy the ride.

* * *

A/N: Ah well, oh well...is that the end? Whatever. They don't get off that easy, not in my litte universe. So I need some help--where to I put the next story? Do I just keep tacking it onto this one like one huge story, or do I start another one? Because I'm really undecided. So...votes, everyone! I need to know the consensus of my readers, because, well, hopefully, you guys will be reading it.

**Par! **Thank you for all your warm, wonderful comments. And here I am, stuck on the one about a certain triple X-rated night...yeah, I like leaving things to the imagination. You know it's always better that way. Heh heh. YOu can fill in your own blank. :) LOL Don't quiver with frustration! Quiver with...something else. Heh.

**cerebralgoddess18**: Don't worry, there's more...just this coming chatper will be the end of part one. So stay with me! And I don't think you'll be disappointed! Sweet Treats: Even if the French wasn't right, it still looked very cool. And I know that poem...that was the poem in the movie Identity...where the guy had like fifteen  
different personalities...hmmm...okay, I won't go there. You do know I was just kidding about the meds, right? Right? (knock knock) anybody there? Hellooooooo?

**Byrony Cel**: I can relate, believe me. Computers can majorly suck sometimes. That's okay, you review when you can, I know you're out there. Hope you enjoyed the last chapter, and I need some feedback about whether to just continue this story or start another thread, or whatever they call it.

LET ME KNOW, GUYS! You, the viewer, get to decide! In the meantime, I'm going to go watch some reruns of the Surreal Life on VH1. That show just totally cracks me up.


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